The Prettiest One: A Thriller (30 page)

“It’s the only address on my list. It has to be there for a reason. The Barrel O’ Beer was on the list, too, and that panned out.”

“It did?”

“Well, we know I hung out there, right? Looking for One-Eyed Jack and his friend. And apparently I got a lead on him there, too. So why should we assume that the address on my list isn’t relevant?”

“Well,” Josh said, “because, like I said, it’s closed . . . it’s closed down.”

Caitlin nodded. “Remember the hours I wrote on my list, next to the address?”

“Sure, ten to four.”

“We assumed that was ten a.m. to four p.m. But what if it was ten p.m. to four a.m.?”

“Who stays open till four a.m.?” Josh asked. “And besides, the place was empty. Closed for years, by the look of it. I doubt they’ll be up and running again”—he looked at his watch—“in half an hour.”

“The pawnshop won’t be. But maybe there’s more there than just an empty pawnshop.”

Bix nodded, looking impressed. “It’s worth checking out.”

“We don’t have anything else to go on,” Josh said with a shrug. “Might as well go back to the worst part of town.”

“We’re already in the worst part of town,” Bix said. “That’s just a different street in the worst part of town.”

Their food arrived and it wasn’t terribly good, but it was filling. Caitlin ate her spaghetti as she thought things through. Finally, she said, “How does the Bogeyman fit into all this?”

The guys looked up from their meals.

“The Bogeyman was on my list,” she said. “Why? One-Eyed Jack makes sense now. So does Bob. If we’re right about the address, then that makes sense, too. But what about the Bogeyman?”

“He can’t be One-Eyed Jack’s buddy,” Bix said. “Bookerman’s still in prison, right? Has another ten years to go?”

“That’s what we read online,” Josh said, “and Bigelson confirmed it. And I didn’t see any article about him being released. Besides, we don’t even know if he’s still alive. Like Bigelson said, maybe he died in prison.”

“And let’s not forget,” Bix said, “you were telling people One-Eyed Jack and his buddy are both in their thirties. Bookerman would be in his sixties by now.”

“The Bogeyman—the Bookerman I thought I was shooting in my dream—was young,” Caitlin said. “Younger than he’d ever been before.”

“Bogeyman Junior,” Bix said. “Maybe Bookerman has a son.”

“If he does, I couldn’t find him,” Josh said. “After we learned about Bookerman, I searched for any sign of that name and got nothing but the old news items we already saw. There are no other Bookermans in the area.”

“Who owns the junkyard he used to run?” Bix asked. “The one next to the town dump.”

“I looked for that junkyard. I don’t think it’s there anymore. The dump is still there, but none of the junkyards in the local Yellow Pages had addresses near it.”

“I don’t think the guy I shot in the warehouse could be a Bookerman,” Caitlin said.

“Caitlin,” Josh said, “will you please stop saying that?”

“Whatever. The murder victim in the warehouse? I don’t think he’s related to Bookerman.”

“Why not?”

“No resemblance.” She knew that the guys were thinking of the man in the police sketch. Caitlin, though, was remembering the face from her dream, lying on the cement floor with a bullet hole in it. “Bookerman was one of the ugliest people I’ve ever seen. Very distinctive and ugly features. The dead guy in the warehouse looked too . . . normal. He was really average-looking. It’s hard for me to believe that Darryl Bookerman could be that guy’s father. I just can’t see it.”

They were just about finished with their meals. For her part, Caitlin was relieved about that. She had needed the sustenance, but the food had ended up being pretty lousy.

Josh looked at his watch. “Ten after ten,” he announced. “If you’re right, hon, the pawnshop, or whatever is at that address now, should be open.”

“So let’s head back there,” Bix said.

Josh nodded, looking pretty brave, Caitlin thought . . . certainly braver than she felt.

Hunnsaker had left two messages for Jane Stillwood, the person who Martha at Commando’s recommended she call first. Hunnsaker had also left messages for a few other employees and had managed to speak with three of Katherine Southern’s coworkers. They all liked Katherine—quite a lot, actually—but none of them knew her well. No one knew where she lived. No one knew who her friends were outside of work. Every one of them recommended that Hunnsaker call Jane Stillwood, though. So while she continued calling other Commando’s employees in case one of them knew Southern better than those Hunnsaker had reached by phone so far, Hunnsaker was heading to Jane Stillwood’s home address to have a chat.

She had just finished leaving a message for yet another person on the list when Padilla called her.

“What’s up, Javy?”

“I can’t find her,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I can’t find any Katherine Southern. She doesn’t exist anywhere that I could find. Motor vehicle, Social Security, property, tax, nothing.”

“Damn,” Hunnsaker said. “False identity?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“So what does Katherine Southern, or whoever she really is, have to hide, other than the fact that she may or may not have shot our victim in the warehouse the other night?”

“I don’t know, but there’s something else, something interesting.”

Hunnsaker liked the sound of that. She liked interesting.

“A call came in through the tip line from a guy who says he used to be on the job. Jeff Bigelson. Retired from the North Smithfield PD nine years ago.”

Wow, an honest-to-God tip that wasn’t anonymous. And from a former cop, no less. “You check him out?”

“He could be lying about being Jeff Bigelson, of course, but there was definitely a Detective Jeffrey Bigelson who retired nine years ago from the North Smithfield PD.”

“And he called about this case?”

“Yeah. Says he spoke with our redhead—that is, with Katherine Southern.”

“He
spoke
with her? About what?”

“He didn’t say, but he wants the lead detective on the case to call him. That would be you.”

Padilla was right. This was interesting.

“Give me his number.”

Not surprisingly, Greendale Boulevard, where the King of Pawns was located, was even scarier at night. Looking up and down the street from the relative safety of Bix’s car, Caitlin saw a collection of frightening characters similar to but slightly different from the ones who had populated the street when Caitlin was there that morning. It was almost as if the night shift had shown up and relieved the day shift.

As Caitlin, Josh, and Bix watched the long-shuttered pawnshop, looking for signs of life that would indicate the place saw nighttime activity despite being closed for business, they talked about whether Caitlin could really have come here by herself. Josh hoped that if she did, she had sat in the car like they were doing now and watched from afar, waiting for One-Eyed Jack and his buddy, rather than going inside. If not, Josh said, she must have been crazy. Bix reminded them that apparently Caitlin had visited the Barrel O’ Beer every night for the past few weeks and survived, and that place wasn’t exactly a Friendly’s. Caitlin promptly noted that she was, in fact, crazy, hence the fugue state. Josh stepped in to reassure her that experiencing a fugue state didn’t mean she was crazy. While they were debating, a couple of guys walking along the other side of the street slowed down in front of the former pawnshop, then pushed open the doors and went inside.

“There was a padlock on those doors earlier,” Josh said.

“Looks like Caitlin might have been right about this place, whatever it is,” Bix said. “You two ready?”

“Not really,” Caitlin said.

Josh said, “I’d like to say that I am, but . . .”

Bix nodded. “I hear you. Let’s go.”

They crossed the street, ignoring the cold stares from the denizens of Greendale Boulevard, and Caitlin turned a deaf ear to the low wolf whistle that she figured was more likely aimed at her than either Josh or Bix. When they reached the doors to the shop, they saw that the chain that had secured them earlier in the day was hanging loosely through one of the door handles, and the big padlock hung open from one of the chain’s links.

“Looks like you nailed this one, Katie,” Bix said. Without hesitation, he pushed open the doors and stepped into what had been the King of Pawns shop. The shelves were empty, as were the display cases that held nothing but broken glass. Dust covered most of the surfaces in the place, except for a wide path across the floor that cut through the center of the store, around the end of a display case, and over to a closed door toward the back of the shop. Caitlin didn’t need a magnifying glass and deerstalker cap to deduce where to go. They started across the room and Caitlin noticed a thrumming in the floor and rhythmic vibrations from below, and as they neared the door she began to hear muffled calls and cries that sounded almost primal.

They were at the door now. Bix grasped the knob. Caitlin took a deep breath. And the door suddenly swung open toward them, pushed from the other side, letting a blast of raised voices escape from the basement below. Through the door staggered a shirtless man with blood covering his mouth and running down his neck and bare chest. A raised purple knot above his right eye looked ready to burst like a huge tick. He headed for the exit to the street, stopped for a moment just short of them to vomit, then lumbered out through the glass doors.

Caitlin, Josh, and Bix exchanged glances.

“If you’re nervous, we can leave,” Bix said.

Caitlin shook her head. “I have to keep going.”

“I was talking to Josh,” Bix said, then winked at Caitlin before stepping through the door and starting down the basement stairs toward the bloodthirsty cheers below.

“Stay close to me,” Josh said, then followed Bix.

The first thing Caitlin noticed on the way down the steps was the smell of violence—men, stale sweat, stale beer, and the tangy scent of blood . . . though she might have been imagining the blood after seeing the bleeding man vomiting upstairs. They were in the basement of the old pawnshop, a large square-shaped space packed wall-to-wall with screaming people, nearly every one of them facing in toward the center of the room, forming a big circle several rows deep. Bix, who was taller than either Caitlin or Josh, craned his neck up and said loudly but still barely loud enough to be heard over the raucous cries of the crowd, “Looks like some kind of fight club.”

A cheer went up, followed by another, then half the crowd was screaming things like “Finish him off” and “He’s done,” while the other half cried variations on “Get back up, you loser.” Another cheer erupted, making Caitlin think that the loser had probably gotten back up. Somehow, even over the cries of the throng watching the fight, Caitlin could hear the meat-slapping, fist-on-bone sounds of a bare-knuckles fight. She had never heard one before, not in person, and though the noises weren’t as dramatic as the sound effects in movie fight scenes, they were somehow far more nauseating.

Caitlin stared at the backs of the people ringing the contest. A shifting of bodies allowed her a brief glimpse of one of the fighters . . . bare-chested, bloody, and exhausted. A fist came out of nowhere, dropping the guy to the concrete floor. The cheering reached a crescendo, and Caitlin heard a voice amplified through cheap speakers say, “It’s over. Winner . . . Dan Driscoll!” More cheers and more than a few jeers. “Next fight in twenty minutes. Place your bets.”

The crowd dispersed. One of the men near Caitlin backed into her and turned aggressively. Both Bix and Josh stiffened, but the man just smiled and said, “Sorry, Katie. Didn’t see you there.”

He waited, almost expectantly, so Caitlin flashed a smile and said, “Oh, come on now, you know you can bump into me anytime.”

The guy smiled and turned away.

Josh looked at Caitlin and shook his head. “Guess they know you here, too. Why am I not surprised?”

Caitlin merely shrugged.

Some of the people milled about, but most were lining up in front of three folding card tables. Behind each sat a sweaty guy with a metal strongbox on the table in front of him. Standing beside each sweaty guy was a bigger sweaty guy with his thick arms folded over his chest. Slips of paper were passed back and forth. Money changed hands. Caitlin followed Bix as he meandered through the room. Josh followed close behind. As they moved slowly through the place, every now and then someone nodded at Caitlin or said, “Hey, Katie,” as they passed. It was like being back in the Barrel O’ Beer, only with fewer women and more blood. Realizing that whenever she had come here, she was probably in her “Katie the Wild Thing” persona, she touched each man on the shoulder or arm and gave out winks and sly grins as though they were candy she was tossing from a parade float. From the men’s reactions, she was acting as expected. The ease with which she slipped into her “Wild Thing” persona still surprised her a little. It was almost like stepping into an unfamiliar costume only to find that it had been tailored specifically for her.