Fugitive Warrant: Stanley Bentworth mysteries, #6

1. A New Private Eye

The chill of late October in Maryland gave a visual mist to my breath and, if I could believe the rear-view mirror, a tint to my usually sallow cheeks. The old car cranked over and started quicker than usual. It seemed to like colder weather, unlike its owner who prefers the thermometer up a notch.

My cell phone interrupted the routine commute from the residential section to downtown. It was Yvonne, the Homicide Unit’s receptionist, dispatcher, and den mother. Yvonne had a dusky, throaty voice that brought to mind the glamorous movie stars of the 1940s, an anomaly because she was nearing retirement, kind of wrinkly, and carried a few too many pounds than would seem healthy. But I loved hearing her voice and talking to her.

Stan, we got a fresh one at the mall.

I’m on it.

I grabbed the blue dome from the floorboard, reached it out the window and onto the roof by its magnet, and lit it up. I always liked that part. The other cars had to get out of my way, and I could drive as fast as I wanted and run all the red lights. We weren’t supposed to speed, but we all did. Where else would a guy find any fun in a job that involved looking at dead bodies, questioning reluctant bystanders, canvassing hostile neighborhoods, and endless paperwork?

I screeched into the mall’s lot. Even old, run-down cars like mine can squeal rubber in a sharp turn. Two black-and-whites stood at the far end of the lot, their lightbars flashing red and blue. The crime scene would be somewhere nearby.

I jumped out and ran over to where the uniforms were keeping spectators behind the yellow tape that stretched over the mall entrance.

Whadda we have? I said.

In there. He pointed through the large double entranceway.

I ducked under the tape and went inside. A body was on the shiny expanse of tiled floor next to a sunglasses kiosk in the middle of the aisle. The stiff was face down, and a pool of blood had formed at about the deceased’s midsection and spread out for about a foot. Pedestrians hovered around, rubbernecking, and two uniforms held them back. A young man was down on one knee inspecting the body, his back to me. He was in a dark suit like mine. Another detective, no doubt.

I cleared my throat. The man looked around and up at me.

Hi, Stan, Sonny Calderaro said. Sonny was a thirty-something murder cop that I’d partnered with on past cases. He was all business and good in the field. He nodded toward the body. Tried to stick up the pizza parlor. Sonny pointed over his shoulder at a storefront with a big PIZZA neon sign in the window and where a nervous-looking young man stood, wringing his hands. The manager shot him in the doorway. A trail of blood led from the nervous guy to the body.

Looks more to me like he shot him in the gut, I said, never able to pass up the opportunity to make a lame joke. Sonny ignored it. How’d you get here ahead of me? I said. I just got the call.

Jane sent me out. Jane was our shift commander. She said you’re needed back at headquarters.

Did she say why?

No, but she said asap. I’ve got this one.

That was unusual. Why would the Lieutenant pull me off a case where I should have been lead detective? That was a disappointment, because this one was open and shut and would have given my closure rate an easy bump.

I drove to headquarters, parked in the back parking lot, and went in the rear entrance.

Something was amiss. Usually of a morning, a fellow is greeted by his co-workers with smiles, hellos, and good mornings. But this morning everyone averted my glance. That could mean only one thing. They knew something I didn’t know, something they didn’t wish to discuss with me, something unpleasant.

I am Stanley Bentworth, Homicide Detective. I’ve been a cop all my adult life, most of it here in Delbert Falls, Maryland, a medium-sized town between Baltimore and Philadelphia, where I’d worked the Homicide Unit for longer than I cared to remember.

I’m not like the detectives on TV, not rugged, not tough, and certainly not handsome. I don’t even know any cops like that. I’m just an ordinary guy, average height, average weight, most of my hair and teeth intact, reading glasses when I need them, and no distinguishing marks of notice when I’m fully dressed. I’m pushing fifty, and make my living investigating murders and closing cases.

I have an attitude. Anyone who works the streets where people kill one another has an attitude. But my attitude shouldn’t fool anyone. I’m quiet and don’t like to fight, which is fitting because I’m not very good at it. I am, for lack of a better description, a soft-boiled detective.

I did a stint as a P.I. for a while. The shift commander and I had a falling out, something about my drinking, and my mouth got the better of my reason. He retired, they had a high profile case they couldn’t crack, and I was drawn back into the fold where I’ve been ever since.

I’m a good detective. My closure rate is at or above that of the other detectives in Homicide. Most of my success is the product of experience—after a while you get the hang of this business—but some is probably because I throw myself completely into every case and give it all my attention to the exclusion of everything else. Including things that ought to matter. Which might explain why my personal life stays close to or in the dumpster. On that score, I’m a self-professed loser, living with my sister and unable to establish or maintain anything resembling a romantic relationship.

I went into the unit to see what was up. Yvonne was the only one there. Like the coworkers who’d avoided me in the hall, she looked away when I walked past her desk, which was unlike her. She usually had a cheery greeting, and we’d exchange quips. Not this morning. It was like I wasn’t there. Something had changed since she called me.

I shrugged and went to my desk. A pink memo slip lay prominently in the middle of the array of paperwork, Coke cans, and other trash that cluttered my desktop. The slip said, simply, Report to the Captain’s office.

No good comes from a call to the Captain’s office. I looked into the glass-enclosed space that Jane called an office. She wasn’t there to explain.

I walked the long walk to the stairs, went up, down the hall, and into the brass’s suite of offices. I had two things on my mind: my job and Elaine.

Elaine greeted me in her usual detached, businesslike manner from her desk that stood like a sentry post between the Captain’s closed door and the rest of the world. I didn’t know exactly why I was there, although I had my suspicions, but she probably knew. The Captain’s administrative assistant knows more about what’s going on in the Division than the Captain does. If paperwork was involved, she’d already seen it.

I’d been to the Captain’s office before. The suite was a giant step up from the units on the floor below where I hung my hat. Dark paneling, posh carpet, drapes, and mahogany furniture, stood in stark contrast to the unit’s battleship-gray metal desks, heavily traveled and worn tile floors, and bare floor-to-ceiling windows with a spacious view of the alley.

One thing was for sure. The Captain didn’t call in detective-grade cops for a chit-chat unless something serious was up. Either I was to be handed a suicide assignment, or I was about to be sent packing. Either option would be unpleasant. On the one hand, undercover can be dangerous. On the other, getting fired can lower one’s standard of living. Whichever it was, everyone knew but me. The grapevine at headquarters is taut and intertwined.

Just now, I stood at the desk of Captain Williams’s able, efficient, and very pretty office administrator awaiting my fate.

You’d think a guy, worried that he might be bounced, would concentrate on how he’d make a living. Or a guy about to be dispatched on dangerous duty would worry about basic survival. You’d think. But when the guy is standing at the desk of the hottest doll in the department, it’s impossible to concentrate on the important shit.

That’s another of my many failings. I like pretty woman and always have. Well, not always. Only since I was about nine. They seem to like me too. Until they get to know me.

Elaine usually wore a tight, white blouse that spread at the buttons where they crossed her bosom. Impossible to ignore. It had always drawn my attention. Today was no exception.

I try to keep such thoughts to myself. If I say them out loud, some people get their asses in a pucker, wrap themselves in political correctness, and call me a sexist.

Although I was infatuated with Elaine, I’d never acted on the impulse. Getting involved with the boss’s secretary can be a career-limiting move. When the relationship goes sour, the lady is well-positioned to inflict serious damage to a guy’s livelihood, if she’s so inclined. Now, that’s what I’d call sexism.

Job insecurity didn’t seem to be a limiting issue now, so I put voice to the sentiment I’d been rehearsing during the lonely walk from the Homicide Unit to the Captain’s office.

Elaine, I said, and she stopped what she was doing and looked up. I think I might be sent on a dangerous undercover assignment. Wishful thinking. No reaction. I switched to the more likely but less desirable choice. Or maybe I’m just getting the old heave-ho. I watched for that hoped-for look of surprise, which would indicate that my assumption had been mistaken. If anyone knew, Elaine would. My hopes notwithstanding, I didn’t see the faintest glimmer of a denial, so I continued with my pitch. I’m not usually this forward, but I’ve always found you more than attractive.

How could a woman not be impressed by that kind of come-on? I didn’t know how, but she could. She neither responded nor reacted but just tilted her head and looked at me in that blasé manner that women reserve for men not worthy of their interest. That should have been a show-stopper for me, but given the current circumstances, I had little to lose.

So, since this might be my last chance to ask in person, would you like to go out with me?

She rested her chin in her palm and looked at me for a long time, the silent no that precedes rejection evident in her stern yet lovely face. My heart sank. The only question was, would she be gentle? Then she put the word to it.

No. So much for being gentle.

Bang! Just like that. Months of infatuation and fantasizing down the drain. Story of my life.

It was no doubt the start of a bad day about to get worse.

Go on in, Detective Bentworth. The Captain’s expecting you. She returned her attention to whatever I had interrupted.

I tapped on the door, opened it, and stuck my head in.

Come in, Stan, sit down, Captain Williams said. I did, and he got straight to the point. Word has it you’re still drinking hard.

That opening pretty much summed up the reason I had been called in. Door number two. The exit.

I went on the defensive. Word has it wrong, sir. I take a drink occasionally, but not often and not much. Not like before.

He did not look me in the eye. You remember our talk. You’ve used up all your get-outta-jail cards. What do you plan to do after civil service?

His abrupt manner pissed me off, but I tried not to let it show. How about a transfer? Off the street. Evidence control, archives, something like that. I didn’t want any of those jobs, but I needed to keep the paycheck coming in.

Not an option. A drunk evidence clerk can do as much damage as a drunk detective. You need to rethink your future. Starting now.

At that, I didn’t care whether he knew I was pissed. I don’t know, sir. Perhaps you and I could go somewhere for a drink and talk it over.

And that sealed my fate. I had walked into the Captain’s office a Homicide detective. I was about to walk out an ordinary citizen, minus my Glock and my shield, turned in at his behest, which he had issued abruptly after that last smart-assed remark.

I considered raising a stink, being a pain in the ass, bringing in the Police Benevolent Association. I considered going public and ratting out all the corruption I’d witnessed on the force in the past twenty years. And I considered punching the Captain in the beezer.

But confrontation is not my manner, not in my makeup. Roll with the punches. Take ’em as they come. Be a lover not a fighter. Besides, the last time I punched somebody in the nose, I got my ass kicked.

When I got fired the previous time, two uniforms had escorted me to the front door. I didn’t know what was different about this time, but I was allowed to walk alone back to the unit to collect my personal effects. There wasn’t much to collect. I’d never settled in since my return because my future there had always been unsure. Now it was sure. I had no future there.

Lieutenant Jarvis, my shift commander, came out of her office and stood by my desk. Jane Jarvis had been one of my partners in Homicide and Narcotics before she made rank and became acting shift commander of the Homicide Unit. The acting status had gone by the way, they’d promoted her to Lieutenant, and she was officially in charge of the unit’s day watch.

She folded her arms and gave me one of her disapproving looks. I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t take any paper clips or anything. Her tone said that she didn’t like what she had to do.

You knew?

Of course I knew. Stop by Personnel to sign some papers. You’re being allowed an early retirement. Least we could do.

That was why I hadn’t been escorted to the door. I wasn’t being fired. I was being retired. A minor difference. This way I’d have a small pension, health care, and no black marks on my record. Even so, I resented it.

This isn’t right, Jane. I get the job done. Look at my closure rate. You’d think that would count for something.

Sorry it didn’t work out, Stan. I tried to get them to give you another chance, but, well, you know.

Yes, I knew. The brass and I had never gotten along. When I stayed out of their hair and they stayed out of my way, I closed cases, which made them look good. But sometimes people in authority need to flex their muscles and exert their control. That’s what had happened here. It had nothing to do with drinking. It had to do with control.

Given any thought to what you’re going to do? she asked, her face reflecting genuine concern, probably the last person outside my family who gave a shit about what happened to me.

I don’t know yet. Probably go back into private practice. My P.I. ticket’s still valid. Let me know if you need a consultant. My rates are reasonable.

That drew a laugh from both of us, and when I stood, she came around, and gave me a big hug. That was nice.

Call if you want to talk, she said.

Thanks, kid, but I already have a baby sister. The kind of lady friend I needed would, like Elaine, be closer to my own age and would, unlike Elaine, want what I wanted. Besides, you’re better off staying clear of me. Keep yourself in the good graces of the bosses. But if you need to talk, call, and if you want a face-to-face, check Oliver’s in the evenings.

Today I wouldn’t wait for evening.

2. Oliver’s

The bar at Oliver’s was as welcoming to the unemployed as to the prosperous. Something a good customer can always count on. Even when the rest of the world rejects you, your friendly neighborhood bartender waits with open arms. At least as long as the credit card doesn’t kick back. It was well before my usual cocktail hour, but when you’ve just been fired, there’s no such thing as waiting for the whistle to blow.

A typical small-town bar, Oliver’s was not a big establishment. An end-to-end bar stretched out on one side, and booths lined the other. The dark paneling had been further darkened beyond identification by decades of cigarette smoke, which was still allowed based on a waiver proprietor Sammy had pulled strings to secure.

Cops hung out there too. Sammy poured a generous drink and was liberal with credit for his friends.

The noon rush hadn’t started, and I had my end of the bar to myself.

Early today? Sammy kept track of all his regulars.

Today and every day from now on. I just turned in my shield. I was pissed and it showed.

Voluntarily? Sammy knew how much I’d wanted back on the job last time. I’d certainly wailed and moaned about it often enough from across his bar.

No.

Bummer. Jack or Bud?

Jack, I said.

Sammy returned with the drink. Got any plans? he said.

Back to the P.I. business, I guess. This just hasn’t been my day. Losing my job was the least of it.

He leaned on his elbows on the bar. What else happened?

Sammy was my full-time confidant, true to his word, able to keep things to himself, and always with the best of advice, whether I wanted it or not.

I hit on the Captain’s secretary, and she cut me off cold.

Shit happens. he said.

At least she didn’t let me spend a lot of money on her just to get rejected. That happens a lot. Usually after a week’s pay on flowers, drinks, dinner.

What happens a lot?

They go out with me, then come up with the same old excuses: they don’t know me well enough, they never put out on a first date, they have a headache, or some such put-off. Then I find out some other guy has dated the same tomato and scored first time out. Must be something wrong with me.

Not at all, Stan. Quite the opposite. It’s the game. These chippies see you as a good catch. A stable guy with a good job—well at least until today—and they know that if they spread their pins the first time out, you’ll think they’re easy. Which they usually are. Most of them, if they had as many sticking out of them as they’d had stuck in, they’d look like a porcupine.

Sammy certainly had a flair for politically incorrect and ornate language.

But they don’t want you to know that, he said. Every other guy’s pin cushion becomes the chaste girl next door when they’re out with a guy whose long-term interest they want to cultivate.

You think it’s that simple?

Sure. Come on, Stan, every guy knows it. They play hard to get so you’ll want to get them all that much harder.

Where did Sammy come up with this stuff? Years of tending bar, observing people, and hearing woeful tales, was my guess. But he was probably right. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t getting lucky lately.

He moved away to attend to other customers and left me to contemplate his wisdom. Maybe he was right. Maybe if I was a jerk, I’d score more often.

I sat and nursed the drink, resisting the urge to knock it back and keep them coming. It’s an expensive hobby, and my checkbook looked sad. I never was one to sock money away during the peak times in preparation for the bleak times. So before I drank myself into bankruptcy, I needed to calculate the costs of whatever my plans would be.

I didn’t know how to do anything but be a detective, and to do that I’d need a place of business.

The old office was out of the question. They’d demolished it and replaced it with a shiny new office building. No way could I afford the rent in the new facility, which stood proudly right across the street where the rundown dump I left behind had been.

I needed the cheapest substitute I could find. I gazed longingly at the far booth in the back corner. That just might make a workable office. Zero overhead and convenient to the bar. I gestured to Sammy. He dropped the bar rag and slid over to rest his arms on the bar in front of me.

Whaddaya need? he asked. Obviously, I didn’t need a drink. The one I had was only a sip or three shy of brimming over.

"I need