Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (12 page)

Elliot pretended to be interested, performing an inspection of the weapon, then handed it back to the suspect. It wasn’t the weapon that killed Brighid McAlister. It was the wrong caliber. “Do you own any others?” Elliot asked.

Holsted shook his head. “That’s all I got. Hell, you got the warrant. Look around for yourself. But you ain’t going to find nothing.”

The search of the house and the shop out back turned out just like Mr. Holsted predicted, no evidence found. Later, with the search completed, Elliot walked over to the workbench where Zachariah Holsted was standing, and it was then that the suspect removed, for the first time since their meeting, the jacket that he wore, exposing his inked-up arms. One symbol in particular, a star with a circle around it, caught Elliot’s attention. “Interesting tattoo,” he said. “What does it mean?”

Holsted glanced at Elliot, a puzzled look crawling across his face, as if Elliot had asked about something he shouldn’t be privy to. “Hell if I know. I drink a little now and then. Sometimes I get a little carried away, wake up in strange places, or with a new one of these carved into my skin.” He shook his head. “It don’t mean nothing.”

“It’s called a pentacle,” Elliot said. “And it can mean quite a lot, especially with it being upside down like that. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Holsted didn’t answer the question. Instead he motioned for Elliot to follow him as he went to the east end of the workbench. Grinning, he tapped the page of a calendar that hung on the wall there. “Come to think about it, I do remember where I was yesterday morning, at Cymry’s Bar for Drifter John’s birthday. I got plastered, if you know what I mean. My missy was there too. Go ask her. She’ll tell you.”

“Was there anyone else there who could confirm your story?”

Zachariah Holsted smiled and said, “Hell yes, there was people there, lots of them.”

“I’ll need a list of names.”

“Sure thing,” Zachariah said. “No problem.” Then his face grew serious. “There’s something else I need to tell you, Detective. Since you’re going to be poking around at Cymry’s you’ll find out anyway, so you might as well hear it from me.”

Elliot nodded. “Go on.”

“Brighid McAlister hangs out there, or at least she used to.”

Chapter Seventeen

Elliot sat in his car in front of Zachariah Holsted’s house, staring at his cell phone. So far, Holsted’s alibi was checking out. Then again, he suspected Holsted’s friends wouldn’t think twice about lying for him. His alibi and the lack of a murder weapon would keep him out of jail for now, but Elliot wasn’t through with him.

Elliot had plenty of information to sort through, though the details of the case weren’t the only things going through his mind. He thought of Holsted’s wife, Courtney, especially the way her eyes tilted when she smiled. The unsettling thoughts caused him to realize their true source. It was Cyndi Bannister. He’d purposely left the note with her number on it at home, though as he thought of her the sequence played through his head, as clearly as if he held the note in his hand. He knew without a doubt that he shouldn’t do what he was contemplating, knew it all the way to his bones, yet his fingers crawled across the cell phone, keying in the numbers that would connect him with her.

When Cyndi answered, Elliot’s words caught in his throat. What was he thinking? She was Cunningham’s girl. Finally, in the discomfort of the silence, she spoke again. “You shouldn’t be calling me.”

All Elliot could manage was, “You’re right.”

“What do you want?”

Elliot thought of the sensuous way she’d drunk from his beer and how it might feel to touch her, but what he said was, “How about dinner?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m hungry.”

“That’s a stupid answer.”

Elliot dried his hands on his pant leg. He felt like a teenager who’d conjured up the nerve to call a popular cheerleader. “Actually it was a stupid question.”

“I told you to leave me alone.”

“Really? I must have missed that part. How does six o’clock sound?”

“Sounds like you’re serious about this.”

Elliot fought the urge to give in and tell her just how much he wanted her. “I’d like to be.”

The phone went silent for a moment, and he almost thought she’d hung up on him. Then she huffed. “You don’t even know where I live.”

“I’m pretty good at finding out things like that.”

“You’d never get past the guard.”

Elliot wasn’t sure what she meant by that. “Oh, I don’t know. I have good credentials.”

“I’ll meet you.”

“Where?” Elliot asked.

“Where are you?”

He told Cyndi his location, and she suggested meeting at a convenience store at 21st and Harvard. He wasn’t sure she would show up, but he hoped that she would. Elliot smiled and punched the END button on the phone. He started the car and pulled away from the Holsted house.

A few minutes later, he saw the cab coming up Harvard Avenue and knew even before the cabbie wheeled into the lot and stopped that it was Cyndi. With a slow fluid movement, she stepped from the cab and started toward him. She wore tight blue jeans and a black leather jacket with a wool scarf of red draped around the collar. Elliot climbed out and met her halfway.

He embraced her, brushing her cheek with a kiss, and during their brief touch the scent of her perfume drove his desire, though his guilt over the clandestine meeting worked to keep it in check. When he released her, her eyes shone with the same curiosity that filled him. Once at the car, Elliot opened the door for Cyndi, then went around to his side and climbed in. “What are you in the mood for?” He realized too late that the question might be construed as loaded. He didn’t think he intended it that way, though in his present state of confusion he wasn’t totally sure.

“How about a sandwich at the Knotty Pine?”

Elliot knew the place, an old barbeque joint on the west side of town. It didn’t fit. He’d expected a classy restaurant. Was she mocking him? “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Not at all. My dad used to take me there. It’s been years since I’ve had one. But if you’d rather not.”

He shrugged. “Sounds good.”

Elliot turned north on Harvard, and when he reached 3rd Street he headed west. “Where are you from?” he asked.

She shot a quick glance in his direction then looked away, but before she could answer, Elliot’s phone rang. Flipping it open, he brought it to his ear. “That you, Elliot?” It was Donald Carter from the medical examiner’s office. “Yeah,” Elliot said, mouthing
sorry
as he looked at Cyndi. He could hear Donald Carter eating. It seemed he was always eating. “What’s up?”

“Maybe you should take up horse racing,” Carter said.

“What are you getting at?”

“Looks like you were right. I thought you were wasting your time, chasing after that hooker. I wouldn’t have given a nickel for your chances of tying her to the John Doe.”

Elliot came to a stop at a traffic light and brought the phone closer to his ear. “What have you got?”

“Oh, not much, just a little old drug that might give you the connection you’re looking for. Flunitrazepam, a benzodiazepine, works on the nervous system. Like Valium only a lot stronger. Both the john and the hooker had traces of it in their systems.”

When the light turned green, Elliot drove forward. “Could you put that in layman’s terms?”

“You probably know it as Rohypnol.”

Glancing at Cyndi, Elliot said, “A date rape drug?”

Cyndi shifted in her seat with such force that Elliot realized he’d frightened her. He covered the phone and said, “Sorry. Just a little cop business. It shouldn’t take long.”

She edged closer to the passenger door.

Turning his attention back to the phone, Elliot heard Carter say, “Yeah, it’s just too bizarre not to mean something. I mean what would a hooker, or her john for that matter, need with something like that?”

“Good point. I owe you one.”

Elliot started to tuck the phone away but when he saw the fear in Cyndi’s eyes, he paused. “This stuff would scare anyone. You shouldn’t have to hear it. I’ll turn the phone off if you want me to.”

“You don’t have to do that. If you turn it off, I’ll end up sharing your attention with your worry over missed calls.”

 A smile turned the corners of Elliot’s mouth. “Not a chance. And by the way, you look lovely tonight.”

She smiled and scooted closer, away from the door. “So do you.”

Elliot’s smile turned into a laugh, but the cause of his joy went deeper than her calling him lovely, too, for at that moment he knew that the rapport he’d experienced on their first meeting had been genuine. Cyndi had already begun to fill the empty spot inside of him, and her eyes and her body language and her words told Elliot that she felt something as well. He’d waited a long time for someone like this to come along, and now that she had, he hoped she was as attracted to him as he was to her.

As Elliot drove, he saw something that cut through his state of euphoria—a sign that read CYMRY’S. It was the place Zachariah Holsted had told him about, the club Brighid McAlister had frequented. The one-story building, constructed of rock stacked narrow side out, like brick, stood on the outskirts of town. He glanced at Cyndi, and she gave him a radiant smile. He knew the place would still be there tomorrow. But the detective in him argued he needed to check it out tonight. He slowed the car and pulled in.

Cyndi stared at him, a look of disappointment covering her face. “Why are we stopping here?”

Elliot opened the car door, but paused before stepping out. “I need to follow up on something. It’ll only take a moment. I promise.”

Cyndi looked dubious. “What kind of place is this?”

Elliot thought of Holsted, and his comments about Brighid. “I’m not sure.”

“And you actually mean to go in there?”

“I was planning on it.”

“Are you insane?”

Elliot gripped the wheel. It was a bad area. She had a right to be upset. But this was important. He might turn up something that’d help the investigation. “Maybe.”

Cyndi shook her head. “I hope you don’t expect me to go with you.”

“Why, don’t you like it?” Elliot asked, winking. But he wouldn’t dream of dragging her into such a dive.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cyndi said, joining in on the humor. “Maybe it’s the car over there with blocks under it instead of wheels, or the collection of broken beer bottles paving the parking lot. Take your pick. Why don’t we just forget about this?”

To comfort her, he grinned and joked, “I’ve been thrown out of worse places.”

Cyndi slid across the seat and put her hand on Elliot’s arm, her eyes turning the color of gray smoke. “Seriously, Kenny. I don’t like this. Why don’t we just go?”

“Just give me one minute,” Elliot said. “It has to do with the case I’m working on, a solid lead. I need to check it out.”

“Then why don’t you come back in the daytime, and bring some help with you, another officer.”

Elliot opened the door and stepped out. “I always work alone. It’s better that way. The keys are in the ignition. Lock the doors after I’m out. If anything happens, honk the horn. It’ll be all right.”

Cyndi shook her head. “If I can’t talk you out of it, then promise you’ll make sure the safety’s off your gun, and keep it handy.”

 Elliot stared at Cyndi for a moment, surprised that she would think of such a thing. He was way ahead of her on that move, but he slid his hand inside his coat anyway, and pulled the Glock free, acting as if he’d just now complied with her wishes. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

“I’ll honk the horn all right. But if you’re not out here by the end of the second blast, don’t be surprised if you find your car missing when you do get here.” Her tone said she wasn’t kidding anymore.

Elliot winked at her then turned away. Once he was at the entrance, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The door closed behind Elliot, and when his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, he got a bit of a shock. He’d expected dirty floors and run-down furniture. In contrast to its location and ramshackle building, the bar’s interior was clean, the booths that lined the walls and a couple of tables with chairs in the center of the room of high quality.

Elliot made his way to the bar, a polished mahogany antique that ran along the back wall, noticing, in addition to the wide assortment of European and domestic beers, a food menu, limited to Irish stew and corned beef with cabbage. He waited for the heavyset bartender, who had his back to him, to finish whatever task he was involved in and turn around. A few moments later, when Elliot decided the man wasn’t going to acknowledge his presence, he said, “Excuse me.”

The man didn’t answer.

Elliot slapped the counter, a little harder than he should have. “I don’t appreciate being ignored, sir.”

After a second or two, the bartender turned around, a rag in his hand.

Elliot showed his badge. “Detective Elliot. I need to ask you some questions.”

The bartender’s gaze darted to a strange painting on the floor. He glared at Elliot. “Charles Miller. They call me Snub. What kind of questions?”

“What do you know about Brighid McAlister?”

“She’s dead. Saw it in the paper.” He shook his head. “I knew this was going to be trouble, figured you guys’d be coming around before long.”

“Looks like I’m in the right place, then. What can you tell me about Brighid?”

“There ain’t much I can tell you, except she hung around here now and then.”

“Looking for business?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt and wiped at the spotless bar.

Elliot pulled out his notepad and flipped it open. “Was she here the evening of January third?”

“She could have been. She’d show up two or three times a week for a while, then sometimes she wouldn’t, kind of sporadic.”

Elliot pulled out the photograph of the John Doe’s face and placed it on the bar. “How about this guy?”

The bartender leaned over and examined the photo. “Can’t say for sure. This is a busy place.” He grabbed a couple of empty mugs from the counter, dunked them first in one sink and then another and placed them upside down on a rack. He nodded toward the photo. “Dude looks funny. What’s wrong with him?”