Assisted Homicide: Stanley Bentworth mysteries, #9

1

Private investigators don’t get shot at. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Despite what the TV shows portray, a P.I.’s cases rarely threaten our physical well-beings. We do peaceful tasks, such as taking pictures of cheating spouses, running down dead-beat dads, and finding runaway kids. Those people don’t carry weapons as a rule. We piss them off more often than not, but they aren’t usually armed. Except for bail jumpers. The hardened criminals among them almost always carry, which is why I don’t take those cases if I can avoid them. The folks I run down don’t know I’m after them and don’t think they need guns.

Unfortunately, nobody told Caster Parnell. He was wanted for beating the crap out of his wife and putting her in the hospital, and her wealthy father had posted a reward for his capture. They wanted him brought in peaceably to answer to charges of family abuse and neglect. A judge had signed an arrest warrant. When they couldn’t turn him up, the same judge signed a fugitive warrant, which meant bounty hunters like me could chase the guy down and bring him in.

My name is Stanley Bentworth, and I’m a P.I. in the town of Delbert Falls, Maryland, about midway between Baltimore and Philly. I used to be a homicide detective until the department and I fell out with one another, them down on me because they didn’t want me to drink, and me down on them because they didn’t want me to drink. If I have to work for assholes, I might as well work for myself so I hung out a shingle and went into private practice.

I’m not a tough guy like you see on TV cop shows, but I’m also not afraid of cowards who beat up women and children. They usually fall apart when they have to face a man. I figured Caster Parnell for that kind of bottom-feeder. He was a wife beater. Not a man in my book. I didn’t think he’d be any problem at all.

No such luck. I found out I’d misjudged him when the bullets started to fly.

Nobody knew what Caster did for a living. The question was usually met with a shrug. He was known to be in need of money more often than not, and some seemed to think he had shady connections. But that had nothing to do with the warrant I was out to serve. He was wanted because he was a deadbeat dad and a wife and child abuser.

It had been a pleasant morning stakeout as I lolled in my car, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and listening to the radio. Then Caster drove up and parked his blue pickup at the curb fronting the city sanitation office’s outpost for park maintenance. Caster’s brother worked there. In tracking Caster’s whereabouts, I had learned from one of his drinking pals that he often came to his brother for money. Now here he was, in broad daylight, a wife beater with a price on his head. I wondered whether he knew. Probably not. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be out in the open like this.

With the fugitive warrant document folded in my pocket to establish my authority, I made the stupid mistake of walking up to his truck before he had a chance to get out.

Nobody told me Caster carried a piece. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have approached him that way. I would have crept up on him from where he couldn’t see me, my piece drawn and at the ready. Instead, I walked up to his driver’s side window, tapped to get his attention, and flashed my fugitive recovery badge. As the window came down, his pistol came out, and I began my zigzag sprint across the grass, away from the car, and toward an oak tree. Two shots rang out as I ran. It’s hard to hit a moving target, and I was moving like crazy as soon as I saw the gun. I put the thick tree trunk between me and Caster even though I couldn’t see where he was. I hoped he was in his car.

Breathing hard, I pulled Roscoe, my .38 Special handgun, and couldn’t believe I was about to get into a shootout over a domestic dispute. A judge had demanded his appearance before the bench, and now he was shooting his way out of what should have been a walk in the park.

I yelled out from behind the tree. Caster! Don’t shoot. I just want to talk!

That wasn’t quite true. I didn’t really want to talk. I wanted to get my targeted ass the hell out of there, my skin intact with no puncture wounds.

Caster answered my call with one of his own. Bang! The bullet hit my oak tree. Splinters of wood and bark flew out from its other side. This guy had no respect for nature.

Sirens sounded from several blocks away. Either someone had called the cops or it was an ambulance on a different mission. I couldn’t stay behind that tree all day and wait to find out.

Anyone who’s ever been in a fire fight knows that you have two objectives: keep your body out of the path of your opponent’s bullets and put his in the path of yours. A simple equation. The last one to shoot is the winner. As with anything else, there are exceptions, but they are few. That was my goal and my plan, to get in the last shot.

I plotted a course from my current tree to another one about fifteen feet away. I ran like crazy. I made it to behind the other tree and stopped, pressing my back to the trunk, my gun pointed up.

Now what do I do? In the movies and on television, they lean around the tree and shoot. That’s stupid. You stick your head out, you’re likely to get it shot off. To do that, I’d need to expose enough of myself to create a target. Not a good idea. I didn’t know how good a shot Caster was, and putting myself in the line of fire was not the best way to find out.

I was wearing an Orioles baseball cap. I reached up and broke off about three feet worth of tree branch, hung the cap over one end and stuck it out from behind the tree.

Almost immediately. Bang! I found out how good a shot he was. The cap went spinning off the branch and behind me sporting a hole where there hadn’t been one. If my head had been in that cap, I’d be worm food sprawled on the ground. So reaching around and firing wouldn’t be a good idea.

Then I had a better idea. The cap was within range of my stick, and I could get to it without exposing myself. I mounted it on the stick again and held it out to where Caster could see the wounded cap. At the same time, I leaned out from behind the other side of the tree. When he shot my poor hat again, I fired once in his direction and pulled back behind the tree before he had a chance to return fire.

I’m no marksman, and I was counting on luck, so I didn’t expect to hit anything other than the thick stand of trees on the other side of the road. Hell, even if I’d been standing up straight and taking careful aim like we do at the range, I wouldn’t have expected to hit what I aimed at. Annie Oakley I am not.

Don’t shoot! came a plaintive cry. What? That was supposed to be my line.

I hoped he wasn’t trying to trick me into exposing myself. Against my better judgment, I took a quick look around the tree. Caster stood beside his truck with his hands up. Please don’t shoot. His pistol was on the sidewalk in front of him. I’d been right all along. The guy was a wuss. As soon as his volley was returned, he caved.

My knees were knocking as I walked toward him with Roscoe at the ready.

I didn’t know you had a gun, he said. I wasn’t aiming to kill you. Just scare you off.

Yeah, right. That’s why you put two bullets through my hat, thinking my head was in it. Ruined a good Orioles cap. You know what those caps cost?

Sorry. I didn’t know.

I was getting braver now and pissed. Turn around and put your hands on the hood.

He did, and I didn’t have handcuffs, so I pulled out my cell phone to call the law. I didn’t have to. A black and white rolled up. Two uniforms got out with their guns drawn. I holstered my piece and greeted them.

Drop that gun, the younger cop said.

He dropped it, I answered. It’s right there on the sidewalk.

He glowered at me and pointed his pistol at my midsection. Not him. You. Drop your weapon and raise your hands. Now!

It’s in the holster, dammit. Can’t you see? This rookie was a moron.

Quit hassling Detective Bentworth, the older cop said. Detective. What’s going on? Most of the veteran cops knew me from my days on the force. The older ones called me ‘detective.’ The younger cop looked confused. He holstered his standard issue and picked up Caster’s pistol.

I looked inside the truck. The upholstery and panel were immaculate, like new, but the hole in the driver’s headrest seemed out of place. It suggested my bullet had gone through the driver’s-side open window to be stopped by the headrest. Caster was lucky. The bullet had missed his head by inches. I didn’t point the hole out to the cops. To the casual observer, the hole might have looked like normal wear and tear, and I let it stay that way. Besides, I didn’t want to admit to having fired a round. It would only complicate the paperwork.

Roscoe had been my drop gun when I was on the force. Cops carry spare guns to drop on citizens they’ve shot who don’t happen to be armed at the time. It turns an honest mistake into a righteous shoot. It’s wrong and illegal, but it’s convenient. It wasn’t the only rule I had broken during my checkered career as a murder cop. I picked and I chose the rules I’d follow and those I’d go around based on what would get the job done and whether I might get caught. I had no problem with that. I had appropriated the thirty-eight from a perp I was frisking and never bothered to turn it in since the weapon had nothing to do with the perp’s misdeeds. If the cops knew I’d fired it now, they’d take it as evidence, its origins would be revealed, and I’d be in trouble. Best not let that happen.

I told the cops Caster was a fugitive, and I showed them the warrant along with my fugitive recovery agent badge, which I’d bought on the Internet. I walked over next to my tree and retrieved my Orioles cap. I took it back and showed the cops to let them know Castro had shot at me. Ruined a perfectly good cap, I said.

I’m a Yankees fan, the younger cop said, showing his disdain for my choice of headgear. Why would anyone root for the Orioles? This guy wanted to make small talk and show how hip he was by rooting for the home team’s arch-rival.

I decided to humor him. I grew up that way. My parents were Orioles fans.

The kid shook his head and sneered. People always think they have to be just like their parents. What if your father was stupid and your mother was obnoxious?

Then I’d be a Yankees fan. That ended our male-bonding sports palaver.

I followed the cops downtown to sign a complaint against Caster for shooting my hat. I called a clerk of the court to report that Caster, the wife beater and deadbeat dad, was in custody and on his way in. She said I could pick up my receipt for the fugitive at headquarters, which I could trade with the perp’s father-in-law for the reward money.

All was well again. But I’d been shot at, and that’s not supposed to happen to a private investigator.

2

I stopped at the office where Caster’s father-in-law ran his investment firm and collected my reward. It wasn’t as much as I usually charge for getting shot at, but every little bit helps. I wanted to ask him to add thirty-five bucks for a new Orioles cap, but I didn’t. I should’ve asked for a new pair of skivvies too. I always think of these things too late. It’s why I’m broke all the time.

Mid-morning back at the office, I gave the reward check to Willa and went into the inner office to crash. Willa would take care of it like she took care of everything that needed taking care of. Willa was the backbone of the Bentworth Detective Agency LLC. She kept the wheels grinding and the detective, me, on the straight and narrow. Well, she tried anyway. She was pushing sixty, skinny, wore no makeup, had gray hair in a bun, and took no shit from anybody.

I owed myself a break. I’d been shot at that morning and had been paid for getting shot at. I leaned back in the old swivel chair and did the usual balancing act to keep it from dumping me on the floor. My eyes closed and my hands went to the back of my head. Willa stuck her head in the door.

We need money, boss man.

I just gave you some.

Not enough. Payday’s tomorrow.

That reward wasn’t enough to pay you?

Not for the past three months.

Oh, crap. That far behind? Then I better get off my ass and make some money.

I don’t care whether you do it on or off your ass, boss man, just do it.

I reluctantly sat forward, opened my peepers, and perused the case list, a whiteboard hanging across from my desk. I was surprised. I hadn’t noticed my open case list was filled. That didn’t happen often. I had more work than I could handle. Up to my ass, you might say, and I was losing track. Feast and famine is outside the typical private investigator’s realm of experience. We see plenty of famine but very little feast. By lucky coincidence, however, I had a full plate at the time, and it was getting hard to keep up. But I needed to work those cases so the list would translate into revenue.

I had several routine cases—like the Caster Parnell case where there was no danger. Ha!—and one case with more risk but good potential for a bountiful payday. That’s the one I concentrated on.

An insurance company, one of my regular clients, had asked me to prove a guy named Phillip Henderson had filed a fraudulent disability claim. The complication, which made the case interesting and maybe even dangerous, was that Henderson was a high muckity-muck in the mob. I wanted to crack that case because it included a substantial bonus if things went the insurance company’s way.

In the meantime, I had to get a semblance of order into my open case files. I’d tried to organize the cases on the computer, but my geek skills weren’t up to that so I did it the old-fashioned way. I hung pictures and notes on the whiteboard and connected them with dry erase marker lines to show how each one related to others. Old school.

When I ran out of room on the first board, I retrieved another one from storage. Then another. When I ran out of places to put the boards I had to spill over into the outer office which was Willa’s exclusive domain.

What are you doing, boss man? Willa asked.

Setting up a case. No more space in there.

Willa clucked her usual disapproval of whatever I did. It was always the same cluck, whether I smoked in the office, drank too much Jack Daniel’s, came in late, or sat in the park and watched girls.

Willa was mother confessor at the Bentworth Detective Agency LLC, and she didn’t let me forget it. It was worth it, though, if only for her coffee.

Where’s Jimmy? I asked. Jimmy was my assistant, a young man learning the trade. I could use him to ease the tedium of this kind of mindless work.

He has class today.

Good for him. I try to have class everyday.

She wrinkled her nose at me. Very funny. Which case are you posting out here?

The insurance case. So I can sit on your sofa, drink coffee, and listen to you work.

As long as you don’t smoke or bring the Jack Daniel’s out here. Cluck.

The insurance case was my highest priority because of the bonus, which would put my practice in the black for a while. The others were stakeouts on cheating husbands and wives, and I had no trouble keeping up with them. Between Jimmy and me, we could cover them all by dedicating only an hour or two a day.

I checked out with Willa and took off to interview Henderson. I had a passel of questions about his claim, and his answers could tell me where to go next. If he’d talk to me.

***

Phillip Henderson lived in the Heights in an upscale house on a street of upscale houses. According to his file, he was separated and lived alone. I parked a couple blocks away so my heap wouldn’t be noticed. A nine-year-old Saturn looks out of place in the Heights where most vehicles are new, expensive, and parked in garages. I walked the two blocks to his front door, rang the doorbell, and waited. Nothing. I rang again. No answer. I called his phone number. It went straight to voice mail.

I walked over to his garage and looked in a side window. A Mercedes was in the garage. Either he was home and not answering, or he had two cars.

I went around the back in case he was on his patio enjoying the balmy weather. It was a full screened patio with a pool and a hot tub. He wasn’t there.

In the movies, this is where the P.I. encounters the beautiful woman in a bikini. No one like that was here. That never happened to me. I wondered when it would. One would think that after all this time...

As I walked back around to the front door, the curtains on the front bay window parted about three inches. Someone was home, someone who didn’t want to open the door to strangers. It was dark in there but I could see a hand on the curtain. I knew what to do. I’d pound on the door until he either opened it or called the cops. Either way I didn’t care.

The pounding didn’t work. I snuck over and looked in his window. Henderson, or at least someone who fit his description, was sitting in his living room, pulling a phony cast on over his leg. When it was in place, he reached down and zipped it closed with a zipper in the back. It was obvious. He was pretending to be injured. While I usually disapprove of people pretending to be injured or sick for whatever reason, this time I was happy. If I could get a record of that, I’d be on my way to collecting a bonus. I took out my cell phone and snapped a picture through the window, but it didn’t come out. The room was too dark, and the window reflected the afternoon light.

I figured he was getting into his disability duds to answer the door. He’d probably use a walker too. Maybe even cough a few times. I went around front and knocked again.

From the other side of the door, a familiar sound came through, a frightening sound. I chanced a peek through the small window on the door. Henderson, I assumed, was at the door loading a shell into the breech of a pump action shotgun.

That scary sound and my increased heart rate and puckering of my asshole got my attention. I didn’t want anything to do with shotguns that weren’t in my control. A shotgun can mess up one’s week. Not to mention one’s body. And I didn’t intend to be shot at twice in one day.

In olden times when I was with the department and needed to roust a suspect, my next move would be to get a warrant, a vest, a battering ram, and a platoon of SWAT backup. Nowadays it was just me. My next move would be plan B: get the hell out of there.

I ran down the yard and up the street to my car, jumped in, and cranked the starter. The old heap cranked but wouldn’t fire. I waited, pumped the accelerator to squirt gas into the carburetor, held the accelerator to the floor, and hit the starter again. After about ten seconds of grinding, the Saturn sputtered, fired, and started, and only then was I able to execute plan B.

The day hadn’t been a complete waste of time. I’d found Henderson where I thought he’d be, but in my haste to avoid having to beat a load of buckshot down the road, I hadn’t asked him any questions.

I thought about what my next move would be. I needed a statement from and even some pictures of Henderson to prove he was alive and well. But how could I interview a man who kept a loaded shotgun at the ready and didn’t want to be interviewed? He hadn’t done anything illegal that would warrant bringing some cops in to back me up, even if I could get that kind of help from a department that wished I lived somewhere else. I was one-hundred percent on my own with this one.

3

Henderson’s disability insurance claim was based on a dive he’d taken into a dumpster off the roof of the factory where he worked. He’d said it was an accident, that it had disabled him, and he’d filed for disability benefits, which covered his executive salary for the rest of his life. My client, the insurance company, tended to disbelieve Henderson’s claim. Nothing new there. Insurance companies like to disbelieve claims. My job was to help them avoid those payments by converting their disbelief into fact. And earn myself a healthy bonus.

To complicate matters, the mob owned the factory, and the insurance company suggested that Henderson’s fall was not an accident. If he’d jumped or was thrown off, he was automatically disqualified. The policy didn’t cover attempted suicide or murder. I had to prove it was either one of those two events or that he wasn’t really disabled. But all I’d seen and heard of him so far was him suiting up and loading a shotgun through a window.

Since his fall, Henderson had apparently holed up in his house, which he’d have to do to collect disability payments, and a good idea if people were trying to toss him off buildings. His shotgun was