Death by the Riverside (7 page)

The drive was bumpy, a long winding road past clumps of pine trees and a few live oaks with Spanish moss. There were no lights on at the house. It loomed as a dark shadow against that cobalt of sky before all light is gone.

The car stopped. Turner and goon boy got out, motioning us to follow. Milo was already out, the driver stayed where he was.

“Something was missing from one of those file drawers,” Milo said. “If you tell us where you put it, it will make things easier for all of us.”

Yeah, easier for them; they could kill us and not be late for supper.

“I don’t understand,” said Barbara. “What’s missing?”

“This is weird. What’s going on?” was my contribution.

“Then you’ll have to be our guests for a while longer.” Milo smiled a smile that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a water moccasin. “I’m afraid you won’t be very comfortable. Boys, show them their accommodations.”

Turner got a long piece of rope out of the trunk, a preview of our accommodations.

“The basement?” he asked. Milo nodded. “Yeah, real nice,” he continued. “No windows, dirt floor, rats. You’ll like it.”

We followed him into the house. Goon boy and Milo were behind us. He took us through a front parlor and into the kitchen, although it didn’t look like anything had been cooked here in a long time. The walls were streaked and moldy, the result of long years by the river and little care. There wasn’t much furniture, a few mismatched odds and ends evidently left behind a long time ago. There were two sets of stairs leading up, one just off the first room we had gone through. Back in the kitchen was another set, steeper and narrower than the first. There was a storeroom off back under the second stairs. Turner entered it and opened a trap door that looked very heavy. Goon that he was, it caused him to grunt. He motioned us to follow him and he started down the stairs to the basement. There was no light on the stairs, only a naked bulb in the basement itself, which Turner turned on. The stairs were old, unpainted wood and creaked rottenly as we descended. There was another door at the bottom made from the same heavy oak as the trap door. I wondered if this basement had been used for slaves, since it was obviously designed to be very good at either keeping something in or out. Perhaps only Prohibition.

There was one large, square supporting column in the middle of the room. That was what Turner tied us to, Barbara on one side, me on the other, with our backs to each other and our hands digging into each other’s spines.

“Good luck, girls. Last fellow we left here was real talkative in the morning. Probably the rat bites had something to do with it,” said Turner in the cheerful voice of a sadist. He turned off the light, then shut the door with a heavy thud. I heard the rasp of a bolt being shoved into place. It was pitch dark. Then I heard the sound of the trap door being shut and its bolt thrown. Footsteps echoed on the floorboards above, then silence broken by the distant sound of a car being driven away.

“Alone at last. I’ve been waiting for this for such a long time, Barbara,” I said hoping to cheer her up.

“Oh, my God,” her voice broke. I guess the idea of being alone with me wasn’t very cheering. Perhaps it wasn’t me, but the ambiance of our surroundings.

She was crying. All the tension of the last few hours was taking its toll. I didn’t blame her. Crying was a tempting idea. As a matter of fact, we were in a situation begging to be cried about. But I decided that we were going to get out. I needed to convince Barbara of that. And myself.

“That phone call I made?” I said.

“Yeah?” she sniffed.

“The police are already looking for us,” I consoled her.

“The city. Not here,” she answered. “God, this is a hell hole. I hate rats.”

“He was lying about that,” I said, hoping that I was right. “Trying to psych us out.”

“Do you think they’ll really leave us here all night?”

“I hope so. They don’t know that the police are looking for us. Let’s see if we can do anything with these ropes,” I said as I started straining against the knots.

“And I’m sure those two doors can be kicked in,” she replied, but she was working on her knots.

She gave up first. I tried for a while longer, until I had rubbed painful raw spots on both my wrists. Turner knew how to tie knots. I had hoped to slip my bonds, because I still had my purse. And that purse contained my gun. A .45 would be a pleasant greeting for Turner in the morning. Maybe my wrists would shrink through starvation during the night. The only other hope was that somehow Ranson would find us.

“Let’s try to sit down,” I suggested.

“Down there with the rats?” Barbara asked.

“There are no rats. There’s nothing to eat down here.”

“Except us.”

“Besides, my clothes are permanently saturated with the odor of one of the great rat-catching cats of New Orleans.”

“What are our chances, Michele?” she asked.

“The police are looking for us…” I started.

“Our chances?” she persisted.

“I’ve got a gun in my purse.”

“Our chances?”

“I think we’ll get out of here,” I said firmly. I had to believe that.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, then replied, “Thank you. I know you’re lying. But it does make me feel better. Let’s sit down.”

We slid slowly, hoping to minimize splinters, down the post.

I remembered what Danny had told me. “The police think that these guys might be using the place next door, a plantation called One Hundred Oaks. They might put two and two together and start searching abandoned buildings in the area.”

“A long shot.”

“Perhaps, but a shot,” I replied. I didn’t like thinking about Danny. I remembered that I hadn’t talked to her since I had hung up on her and that I might not get a chance to again. I thought about crying. Stop it, I told myself, you’re getting maudlin in your old age.

“I can’t believe this, but I’m sleepy,” Barbara said.

“Sense deprivation. It’s dark, you can’t move, and you’re probably very tired.” Nothing like thinking you’re going to die to tire you out.

“Maybe. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Cissy wasn’t feeling well and I had to get up a couple of times. Oh…” She stopped. I knew she was wondering if she was ever going to see her kids again. I heard her start to cry.

“It’s going to be all right. I promise…”

“Don’t,” she broke in. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You’re not God. None of this is your fault, Michele, you…”

“Yes, it is,” I interrupted. “If you hadn’t met me, you wouldn’t be here, you’d be home safe with…”

“How do you know? Two weeks ago, I pointed out to Milo some discrepancies in shipping vouchers. He didn’t seem very pleased that I had caught the problem. Also, I walked in on a meeting last month when it was hot and the men had taken off their jackets. They were all wearing guns. Let’s face it, whether you came along or not, I know too much. I know clients’ names, shipping dates, what people look like. Too much.” She stopped. I heard a heavy sigh.

She was probably right. Barbara Selby had been disposable from the beginning. Damn them.

“I’m just sorry to have someone like you for company,” she finished.

“I was about to say the same.”

“Michele…”

“Micky. All my friends call me Micky.”

“Okay, Micky. Not to get too sentimental, but if you survive and I don’t, tell my kids and my mother that I love them.”

“I will. I hope I don’t have to.”

“Any messages you want to send?” she asked.

I paused. “On the off chance that you get out and I don’t, tell Danny, Danielle Clayton of the D.A.’s office, ‘It’s not true that only the good die young.’ I’m living…” I caught myself. “I’m proof of that.”

“I will. And I hope that I don’t have to. Is Danny your lover?”

“No. Not now. We went to college together, and we did end up sleeping together for a while. But…” I trailed off.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.” If you can’t be honest in the dark, when you’re about to die, when can you be? “Yes, I do. The idea of living with and depending on one person terrified me. I ran out the back door and into the arms of as many women as I could find until Danny had had enough and told me to either grow up or stay out of her bed. So I found another place to sleep. And she did too, of course. Somehow we managed to stay friends. And someday, when we’re both ready to settle down, maybe we’ll end up together.”

“I thought you were the one who wasn’t ready. Is she waiting for you?” Barbara asked.

“Well…no,” I had to admit. “As a matter of fact, she’s been living with some woman for,” I had to stop and think, “for over a year now.”

“Micky, people move on with their own lives whether we want them to or not.”

I suddenly felt very lonely. Barbara was right. I had always dismissed Danny’s lovers because it had been convenient for me to. I knew that she was looking for someone to love her and live with her, but I never thought she’d find anyone. And…and leave me. That was why I was lonely. I had done something that I despise in other people, I had assumed that she saw the world the way I did. That if I was a cynic about love, then she was. That if I didn’t want a joint checking account and a queen size bed, then she didn’t either. Danny was gone, long gone, and I hadn’t even noticed. I had taught her Kant, drilled her on his philosophy over and over again that semester, and now I was the one had who flunked the real test.

And worse, I was stuck here about to be killed (and Danny wouldn’t even gloat about being right about that) and would probably never get the chance to make it up to her. What good is gaining insight into yourself if you can’t show it off? Or at least apologize for the things you’ve messed up?

“Yes, you’re right,” I answered Barbara. She probably thought I had fallen asleep on her. Well, one of us had. I could hear her rhythmic breathing in the background. I was glad she was asleep. It was a much better way to pass the time than listening for rat sounds and trying to figure some way out of here.

I dozed fitfully, disturbed by dreams, which I could remember only in snatches. One of running, running down a dark street, only to turn a corner and find the same street still in front of me, demanding that I run down it again.

Chapter 10

When I woke, I had no idea what time it was. I did, unfortunately, know where I was, due to the pain in my shoulders and arms and the stinging in the raw places on my wrists. I guess I must have jerked awake, because I heard Barbara’s breathing pattern change, become more shallow, then she woke up, too.

“Good morning, I think,” I said.

“Shit, are we still here?” It was the first unladylike word that I had heard Barbara say. “I was so hoping this was a bad nightmare.”

“So was I,” I said. Then we heard footsteps. Reality had arrived.

“Shit,” Barbara said again.

“Maybe it’s the police,” I said, being an unreasonable optimist.

First the trap door opened, then I heard the bolt being thrown back on the cellar door. If it was the police, they certainly knew their way around the place.

Goon boy and friends. The basement light seemed very bright after the hours of pitch dark.

“Bring them up,” called Milo’s voice from the top of the stairs. “I want to talk to them.”

Goon boy was grunting over the knots. He finally got them loose. My hands started throbbing from the flow of blood. Everything hurt as I stood up. Barbara would have collapsed if I hadn’t caught her.

Goon boy motioned us up the stairs. It was very early morning, barely gray and still dewy with a chill in the air.

Milo was sitting in the front parlor in the best of the rickety chairs. Turner and two other men I hadn’t seen before were also there.

“Good morning, have a pleasant night, ladies?” Milo asked with a sneer.

“No,” I answered, forgetting that I was supposed to be a bimbo.

“Too bad. Now, Barb, do you remember where that notebook got to?” he asked as he stood up and started to pace.

“What book?” she asked.

“Don’t play games with me, bitch,” he exploded. I realized that we weren’t the only people in trouble. Milo was, perhaps literally, under the gun. We may have taken the notebook, but he had let it get taken. He had to get it back. Milo was not a man who took pressure very well, it seemed. Somehow I doubted he was in charge of this, he was too nervous and high-strung. Also nowhere near smart enough.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” Barbara answered truthfully.

Milo made a tense motion to Turner. He backhanded me across the jaw. I had seen it coming and had tensed my jaw and rolled with the punch, but it was bad enough. I could feel the drip of blood down my chin.

“You want to watch your friend get hurt? You want to hurt her? Tell me where it is and it’ll all be over.”

“I don’t know,” she said in a cracked whisper, as if noise itself would be painful. She shook her head.

Milo was losing his temper. He grabbed her jacket and started shaking her.

“Goddamn it, tell me where that fucking book is!” he shouted. She was crying, but she still shook her head no. Then he punched her in the stomach. She made a low grunting noise and doubled over. I started to move, but Turner stepped in front of me.

“Okay, we’ll do it your way,” Milo said. He grabbed Barbara’s hair and pulled up her head to make her watch. “Turner.” He gave the go-ahead.

Turner smiled. Then he licked his lips. He was looking forward to this. He cracked his knuckles, then took a few practice swings. I ducked, making him think that I was a very easy target. Then he pulled back for a third time and I knew that this was the real one by the way his muscles tensed. Turner was not a good fighter; he was big and mean and with brass knuckles and a gun, he got by. But he was off balance and exposing a lot of vulnerable areas.

He threw a punch that would have done damage if it had landed. But I blocked it, grabbing his fist and pulling him off balance. Without a break, I stepped in, smashed my elbow into him and broke his jaw. It snapped with a loud crack. He didn’t even have time to look surprised before his face collapsed.

For a moment, no one in the room knew what happened, until Turner went to the floor and made a noise that sounded like a whimper. I figured I’d better take advantage of the confusion.

“You fucked up, Milo,” I said, making clear I was in no way, shape, or form a bimbo. “Barbara had nothing to do with it. You want the book back? I’ll make a deal with you. You get the notebook, no hassle, if she goes free. We get in the car and drive to the city. You drop Barbara off somewhere far enough from a phone to suit yourself. Then I’ll lead you to that book.”

Milo stopped pacing for a moment, instead jangling coins nervously in his pocket. “I can beat it out of you,” he finally replied.

“No, you can’t,” I shot back.

“Yes, I can.”
Right, Milo, anything you can do I can do better.

“Not in time to do you any good,” I answered, which was true and he knew it. Even if there were nobody to report me missing, someone had certainly reported Barbara a long time ago. They didn’t know that I had alerted the police and that Ranson and crew might even now be tearing Jambalaya Import and Export apart. But they were paranoid enough to worry. Mobsters have too many enemies, not just the police but rival gangs.

“You’re bluffing,” Milo said.

“Uh, Milo?” The driver came in. He was carrying a top-of-the-line cellular phone. He handed it to Milo.

I watched Milo listen, his attentiveness to the caller confirming which of them was in charge. Milo was finally allowed to give a quick rundown of what was happening here. Then he was listening again. After a moment he fixed me with a hard glare.

“So your name’s Knight, huh?” he demanded.

I shrugged. It wasn’t really a question.

“A P.I., huh?” Again, not really a question. “Bitch,” he added, a comment, I gathered, on my having so easily mislead him. “The driver has got to go back to town. He’ll take Barb with him. After we get the book back, he’ll let her go,” Milo informed me, obviously on his boss’s orders.

“What guarantee do I have that you’ll let her go?”

“None,” he answered. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

That not being possible, I tried to think of something else. What would appeal to a rabid rat? Turner moaned loudly.

“Shut him up,” Milo said. One of the goons slapped Turner. It did little to quiet him.

“Take it or leave it,” Milo said to me. He took his gun out of his coat and aimed it at Barbara. “But don’t waste my time.”

“All right, I agree.” I had no choice.

Turner groaned noisily.

Milo nodded and with no change in his manner, he moved his hand slightly and pulled the trigger. The report from the gun was very loud in the still dawn. Turner grabbed his chest and pitched forward.

“Sorry, Turner,” Milo said calmly. “You can’t get your jaw broken and be on parole. Too many messy questions at the hospital and from your parole officer. Let this be a lesson to you, boys,” he pontificated. “Don’t let any broad break your face.”

There was the sickening, wet wheezing sound of air and blood mixing. Turner was gasping through his broken jaw. Barbara turned her face from the scene; she looked very pale and frail. I put my arms around her and held her. She started to gag. The air in the room seemed to change, the smell of a dying man overcoming the wet, dirty odor of decay.

Milo motioned to the driver, who led Barbara away from me and out to the yard. I heard her vomit outside.

“Make sure she’s finished before you let her in the car,” Milo instructed. “Cleaning bills ain’t cheap these days.”

“It won’t take long,” I said. “She hasn’t had anything to eat since lunch yesterday.”

“Now, Miss Private Eye Knight, who do you work for?” Milo asked.

“It’s an hour drive to New Orleans. Surely you don’t expect me to tell you anything before then,” I replied.

Milo repeated my answer into the phone.

“Let me work her over for the next hour. I might knock it down to forty-five minutes,” he told his boss.

“I made a deal,” I said, loud enough for the unseen caller to hear. “In an hour, I’ll talk.”

Milo was listening again. He mumbled a few sputtered explanations. Evidently Mr. Big found some fault in his handling of the situation. Milo finally said, “Okay, I’ll be there. And don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” He turned off the phone. “Take her downstairs and tie her up.” He added, “I’ll be back,” to me.

Goon boy led me back to my favorite rat-infested basement and tied me to the stake, then I heard the slamming of the doors and the room was dark again. A car drove away in the distance.

But goon boy was not the expert in marlinespikemanship that Turner was. By maneuvering my arms up the column a bit I was able to bring my hands closer together and get some slack in the rope. It took me some time and a bloody wrist, but I managed to work myself free.

By groping in the dark, I found my purse and the small pocket flashlight that I always carry. Let there be light. The next thing I pulled out was my gun. Then I started looking around the basement.

It was basically a hole in the ground in which junk had been deposited. There was a pile of boxes covered by dust and spiderwebs stacked against one wall. Against another wall was an assortment of furniture that made the stuff upstairs look like the finest D.H.Holmes had to offer. I was afraid that any second now my flashlight beam would discover the shackles used on slaves. I didn’t like the idea of tortured ghosts in here with me. But only a blackened brick wall appeared in my light.

The basement was odd shaped. The wall on the other side of the door went back at a ninety-degree angle into another section of the basement, like a square added to the rectangle.

I explored back in that direction, hoping that that wasn’t where the killer rats were hiding. More junk and broken furniture appeared in my circle of light. There was a large pile of lumber and some old broken doors in what I guessed to be an outside corner. Something scurried away from my light. Probably just a little mouse, I told myself. Dark, dank basements always make sounds seem much louder than they really are.

Just to prove to myself that I wasn’t scared of any field mouse, I decided to look behind the doors. I lost my footing for a moment stepping over the lumber in my work pumps. That didn’t do much for my rating on the Butch-o-Meter. I pulled the last door away from the wall, first shining my light on the floor, just in case any cute, little, adorable rodent should be in the vicinity. A number of insects, but nothing mammalian. As I looked up, my flashlight illuminated something very interesting. Two rusty hinges attached to a metal door, maybe two feet by three. It was a very dusty black, evidently a coal chute. And it looked wide enough for me to fit in. Eureka! I remembered seeing a pile of old clothes somewhere. If I was going to be climbing up coal chutes, it might be a prudent idea to change out of my, so far, only slightly tarnished blue dress. I stumbled back over the lumber to the other side of the basement, where I found what I was looking for. I took off my dress, slip, and panty hose, and folded them into my purse, which I hid in one of the bottom boxes. If I couldn’t get out of the coal dump, maybe I could hide there and make them think that I had gotten away. Before putting on my new clothes, I went over to a corner and peed. Get the bodily functions out of the way now, instead of having to go while I’m fighting the bad guys. Then I tried on my new ensemble. A pair of holey jeans a size too big and a moth eaten T-shirt, also too big. I scavenged a length of rope for a belt and rolled up the pants cuffs. I decided against shoes. My slick pumps wouldn’t be much use any place I might be going in the next few hours. Besides, their navy blue color clashed with the faded blue of my jeans.

I wanted to get into the coal chute without dislodging the old doors too much. I didn’t need a flashing light signaling where I’d gone. First, I had to get the chute door open. It probably hadn’t been moved for decades. The first inch was easy, the hinges were that loose. It screeched protest the rest of the way, and covered everything, including myself, with coal dust. I could only get it to open a little above horizontal, so that the door pointed up at about forty-five degrees from the wall, which solved my old door problem. I could lean them against the coal chute door and still have room to crawl into it. As long as goon boy and friends didn’t search the basement with floodlights, they would probably never notice.

The only thing now was to squeeze myself in and hope that I didn’t run into any nasty crawling things. I wished I had a bandanna to cover my face with. I was still coughing from the dust kicked up by opening the coal chute door.

I put my gun in my rope belt, then covered it with a wad of T-shirt to keep dust out of it. I tentatively put my head inside and flashed the light up the shaft. What I saw was more dirt and spiderwebs than I ever thought existed in the state of Louisiana. All in that shaft that I had to climb up.

I heard a car door slam. Damn, Milo had bad timing. I switched off my flashlight and put it in my pocket, then slid my shoulders into the shaft. I braced my elbows against the sides and pulled my torso in. Then I put one foot on the edge of the opening and pushed the rest of me up. The metal felt cold and sharp against my bare feet. I braced my elbows again, then my feet and lifted myself up a couple of inches. All that was supporting me was the pressure of my arms and legs against the sides of the shaft. I couldn’t look up, even if there was something to see, because of all the dirt and dust. I heaved myself up another couple of inches so that my feet were above the top of the opening.

I paused for a moment to listen. I didn’t want to be struggling noisily in here when they were in the basement.

Then I heard it. Off in the distance. A shot. Milo, I told myself, it had to be Milo. The powers that be got tired of his bungling and brought him back here to be shot. I thrust myself up again, then again, before I remembered that I needed to be quiet when they came into the basement. I stopped, hanging suspended in the dark, dusty air.

The trap door was opened, then footsteps on the stairs. The bottom door opened. I heard some very gratifying cursing. Then the footsteps ran up the stairs and there was more yelling. I chanced hauling myself up the shaft another foot or so. Then more voices and more feet down the stairs. They were yelling and throwing the broken furniture around. They were making enough noise to allow me to continue inching my way up. If they tore up every inch of the basement, they would find this shaft. I didn’t want them to find me in it. Something started crawling on my neck. I didn’t dare shake it off. I couldn’t risk making too much noise, or worse, losing my hold and sliding back down. I just had to hope that it wasn’t a black widow. I gained another few inches with whatever it was still on my neck. Finally it crawled away, perhaps off me, more likely onto my shirt or my hair. Then my elbow landed on a nail. I almost jerked it back, but my foot started to slip. I pushed my elbow into the nail, ignoring the pain. There was more crashing and cursing in the basement. I moved myself up a few inches more and got my elbow off the nail. I vaguely wondered if there was any possible way that I was current on all my immunizations, like tetanus. Ignoring my bleeding elbow, I slid up a little farther.