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

The strange girl put her arm through Llewellyn’s, and he realized that not only had they not exchanged names but he had anticipated her actions and welcomed her touch. She evaluated him with her gaze. “Save the call, Snub. I’ve got a car.”

The look on the bartender’s face said he was confused, and it seemed that in some strange way he might even be concerned for Llewellyn. “Whatever you think,” he said.

 “It’s nice of you to offer,” Llewellyn said to the girl, “but I hate to impose.”

His resistance, though, was superficial at best. Still holding his arm, she shook her head and guided him through the door. Once they were outside, she pulled him close and they kissed again. He was in deep, and he knew it, but he kept going along with it. In the parking lot, they stopped beside a red Monte Carlo, and she did something that surprised Llewellyn. She tossed him the keys. “You drive.”

Llewellyn stuck the key into the slot and opened the door, and after getting inside he reached over and unlocked the passenger side. She gave him directions and Llewellyn followed them, driving farther from his place with every block. A little later she said, “Turn here. We’ll park in the back.”

When they got out of the car, Llewellyn glanced around the area, seeing a few spent wine bottles. “No offense,” he said, but I’m starting to have second thoughts about this. Maybe I should go.”

“All right, but come in for a quick drink. I won’t keep you. I promise.” She ran a long nail along his jaw, making it an almost predatory gesture and an enticing one.

As they approached the building, it occurred to Llewellyn that her place didn’t look much better than the bar.

She turned to look at him and caught him surveying the lines of the building. “Neat old place, huh? I like it here, love the vibes, if you know what I mean.”

“It does have character,” Llewellyn said.

She unlocked the door and they stepped into a small landing. The place was grim, and populated, Llewellyn suspected, by various strata of socioeconomic defeat, and as they walked the red, carpeted hallway, a red that reminded Llewellyn of blood, he thought of Dante’s
Inferno
, for as they walked deeper into the building each successive apartment appeared more steeped in despair.

The girl’s place was no exception, and once inside, Llewellyn could not imagine anyone actually living there. From a chip-edged kitchen table, she grabbed a bottle of bourbon and poured some into a glass, mixed in a little soda, and handed it to him.

He swirled the amber mixture, unable to meet her eyes. His heart pounded. Leave. Just gulp it down and leave.

Before he could consider other options, she took the untouched drink and placed it on the table. Then she took Llewellyn’s hand and placed it on her stomach, where she began to guide it upward, beneath her shirt, until it came to rest upon the warm, soft flesh of her breast.

Chapter Two

Detective Kenny Elliot stared at the old rock building on North Main Street. The Cain’s Ballroom had come into existence in 1924 as a garage for Tate Brady, the same Brady that Brady Street, the Brady District, and the Brady Theater were named after. Within a few years, the garage was transformed into a nightspot where those so inclined could buy a dance for a dime. Madison W. Cain bought the place in 1930 and christened it Cain’s Dance Academy. Through the years, the place had seen a lot of action. From western swing to punk to cutting-edge rock, it was said the Cain’s could handle anything.

This morning, however, with no one around and the wind blowing last night’s paper litter along the sidewalk, it resembled just another building in a city that had been deserted; a ghost building in a ghost town.

If the morning unrolled smoothly, they would find the lead singer in a rock band called Hell’s Gate inside—Larry Benson, aka Enrique Savage. They would question him about the death of his girlfriend, Susan Lancaster, an insurance investigator who had been pulled from the Arkansas River a couple of days ago. She hadn’t drowned. With five stab wounds to the torso, she’d been dead when she hit the water. If all went well, they’d bring Savage in before someone else got hurt.

Typically Elliot had none of that diffidence to which some rookies prove susceptible these days. He had a job to do, and that was important to him. Today, however, he was distracted, his thoughts jerky and random, moving about like a leaf caught in the wind. He had started the day with a feeling that something, or someone, had just set in motion a chain of events that would bring disaster to his world. Seeing Savage’s rap sheet in the Lancaster file hadn’t helped.

Elliot glanced at his partner, Dombrowski. “I don’t trust Savage. I think he killed Susan Lancaster.”

Dombrowski didn’t seem concerned. “Take it easy, Elliot. We’re just here to question the guy.”

“He’s not what you think. I’ve met him.” At a club that catered to insomniacs. Enrique had been on the stage, and his dark following of leather-clad, punked-out fans had filled the club to a standing-room-only status.

Dombrowski scowled then turned his collar up against the frigid wind. “Good, you can catch up on old times, then.”

The night Elliot met Savage, he had pushed his way inside the club perhaps from a fear of being alone, or maybe it was fate, but he’d taken only one drink when Enrique began spouting Latin phrases in between the lyrics of a song, and the crowd went crazy. At the apex of the frenzy, Enrique had turned his pasty face toward Elliot and grinned acknowledgment of his presence.

Dombrowski pushed open the black doors leading into the building.

As soon as they stepped into the room, Enrique Savage leaped to the front of the stage, brandishing the microphone stand with both hands. The rocker snapped his gaze at Elliot and Dombrowski. He snaked one hand down the microphone stand.

Elliot drew his weapon. As he did this, a ridiculous notion went through him that the gun wouldn’t do any good, and that he might’ve had better luck had he loaded it with silver bullets and brought along a rosary to hold in front of him like a shield.

Dombrowski sighed. “Lower your weapon, Elliot.”

Elliot held fast, keeping the Glock trained on the suspect. Black leather contrasted against white skin, the pasty skin of an albino. Enrique Savage stood about six foot seven. With all of that going for him, Savage looked as much like the harbinger of death as anyone Elliot had ever seen.

“Stand down, Elliot. I’m not going to tell you again.”

The grin that spread across Enrique’s face was even more unnerving than the coldness of his stare. He didn’t loosen his grip on the mike stand.

“He made a move I didn’t like,” Elliot said. “Might have been going for a weapon. Have him raise both his hands.”

Elliot knew Dombrowski had questioned Enrique earlier and searched his apartment. He hadn’t found anything, and he didn’t expect to now. Elliot had convinced him to re-question the suspect based on a gut feeling, and Dombrowski, who’d seemed tentatively persuaded at the office, was clearly now having second thoughts. With a disgusted glare, he said, “Sorry about this, Mr. Benson, but would you please raise your hands and show my nervous friend here that you’re not armed?”

Elliot shifted his weight. Dombrowski had warned him about making such quick assessments, sizing people up, categorizing them before he knew the facts, but it was a habit he couldn’t seem to break. Enrique was no good—maybe not Charlie Manson, but certainly worthy of close observation.

Dombrowski started to speak again, but fell silent, his mouth gaping.

Elliot thought he’d kept his eyes on Savage the whole time, perhaps relaxing his gaze a bit to glance briefly at Dombrowski now and then, but the suspect had not only moved his hands but had raised them above his head, where he now held what appeared to be a gleaming sword.

Then Savage unleashed the weapon, heaving the honed steel like a spear.   

Metal clattered across the floor, not a sword but the microphone stand. Then he was gone. Elliot had never before seen anyone move that fast, especially someone the size of Enrique, but as soon as the microphone spear hit the floor, the rock star was off the stage and out of the building, or at least out of sight.

Elliot glanced at Dombrowski then followed his lead and ran for the back door. The rear entrance opened onto an outside area that was a combination of grass, dirt, and asphalt, and as Elliot ran across the small lawn, littered with beer cans and spent wine bottles, he caught sight of the suspect. Enrique had scaled a black wrought-iron gate, and was dropping onto a deteriorated asphalt driveway on the other side. A different type of fence, which was lower, ran across the other side of the back building. Elliot considered the route but changed his mind. He holstered his weapon and climbed the gate, and as soon as he dropped to the other side, he again slid his hand around the handle of the Glock and pulled it free.

He scanned the area but didn’t see the suspect. As soon as Dombrowski caught up, Elliot pointed toward the most likely escape route, and together they made their way north on Boston Avenue, heading beneath the Interstate 244 overpass. Ordinarily there would have been blankets and sleeping bags tucked into the cracks and crevices where the steel girders met the concrete, but the bottom of the highway was a good distance from the street below it, and the concrete that skirted the edges ran perpendicular to the ground instead of sloping, as was the usual design.

Beads of sweat broke out on Elliot’s forehead, the feeling of being watched pressing in on him.

“Do you see anything?” Dombrowski asked.

Elliot started to reply that he had not when a movement caught the corner of his vision. “There,” he said. A man had ducked around a corner of the bridge.

Elliot and Dombrowsi scrambled after him, catching him on the north side of the overpass. The man, small and bearded, held his hands in front of him, palms open and facing outward, and he shook his head, indicating that he was not the one they were looking for. He slowly moved one finger, trying to alert his captors by pointing to the other side of the bridge without drawing attention to himself.

Elliot interpreted the gesture and swung around to spot Enrique traveling north on Boston Avenue. He was moving fast.

Dombrowski stumbled, caught himself then sprinted after his quarry.

Enrique kept running.

Elliot tore across the street in pursuit, barely aware that Dombrowski was behind him. He assessed the suspect’s escape route. At one time, there had been houses in the area, but they had been torn down, leaving the streets and sidewalks to meander aimlessly around empty lots, with stairways and driveways that led to nothing. There was nowhere to hide.

When the suspect reached Fairview Street, he turned west.

Elliot followed. From behind him, he heard Dombrowski shout, “Give it up, Enrique. You’re not getting away.”

Elliot wasn’t so sure. Enrique seemed to possess the speed and agility of an elk. He was at least half a block ahead of them and increasing the distance with each stride. Elliot holstered his weapon and dug in for all he was worth. Seconds later his lungs began to burn, and he could feel his strength fading, but he was gaining on the suspect.

They ran past Main Street, then Boulder Avenue.

A couple of heartbeats later, Elliot made his move. He dove for Enrique’s legs, catching one of them.

Enrique stumbled, but before Elliot could get a grip, the suspect kicked loose and again he was running.

Elliot scrambled to his feet, but Enrique had regained his distance. He turned north again, heading into the Brady Heights District by way of an alley just this side of Denver Avenue.

Again, Elliot closed the gap, and he caught sight of the suspect just as he crossed the backyard of a house on Golden Street. After that, Enrique opened the back door and entered the residence. He had proven Elliot wrong. Someone who could run that fast, and sustain the speed for long enough, could find a place to hide.

Elliot waited for his partner, who had already called for backup. The look on Dombrowski’s face told Elliot they were thinking the same thing; Did Enrique Savage know the people in the house he’d entered or was he looking for a hostage?

Gesturing his intentions, Dombrowski took the front door, crossing the side yard and disappearing around the front corner of the old clapboard house.

Elliot waited a few seconds, then made his way across the alley and heaved himself over a chain-link fence that surrounded the backyard. He heard a rustling noise, saw movement, and seconds later he was staring at a hungry-looking pit bull. Elliot took a step back, and the dog did him one better. He edged within inches of Elliot’s position, his eyes seeming to scan him, size him up. Elliot didn’t have time for this. Enrique could come out at any second, and of the two animals, Elliot figured Enrique was the one to fear. He held the Glock in front of him. “I don’t have time for this, pooch. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”

The dog sniffed the air, then turned and walked back to his hiding place in a corner of the yard. As the dog flopped to the ground, and Elliot exhaled, the door smacked open against the clapboards and Enrique busted out, forcing his hostage in front of him—a dark-haired Hispanic woman, her eyes pleading for help. Homemade tattoos stained her arms with crude blue markings. Enrique held a knife to her throat.

Elliot took aim. “Come on, Enrique, this isn’t going to help your cause. Why don’t you let her go, and we’ll talk about it?”

“Not a chance.”

Enrique’s voice resonated through the yard, deep and full of bass. It reminded Elliot of a demon in a horror flick. “Are you saying you did kill Susan Lancaster?”

“Shut up. I didn’t say anything like that.”

“Same thing in my book, buddy.”

“Yeah, well maybe I’m just scared, couple of cops busting in and chasing me like that.”

Behind the suspect, Elliot could see Dombrowski in the house, just inside the doorway. He was waiting for a chance to make a move.

“We didn’t break in, pardner. The door was open. Why did you run?”