Nightbeat: A Bailey and Knowles Mystery

Nightbeat

A Bailey and Knowles Mystery

By Roxann Davis

Copyright 2016 Roxann Davis

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About Roxann Davis

Connect with Roxann Davis

Chapter 1

My name is Ariadna Cruz Santiago Knowles. Ari, for short. I know. That’s a lot of names, but that’s the story, you see. My father, or so I’m told, is Armando Santiago, Mando for short. Or he was, I should say. He’s dead. I don’t think he and my Mom ever married, but somehow I got his name, too. My mother, Marisol Adelita Cruz —Mari for short—is dead, too. Mari and Mando abandoned me as a child, not intentionally, I’m sure. They never hurt me. They were heroin addicts.

Mando went first. One day he just didn’t come home. That wasn’t all that unusual. Sometimes, when he was what my Mom would say was really sick, he’d be gone for a couple of days. This time a couple of days turned into nearly a week. Or, so I’m told. Mari left the apartment one day to find him and had the neighbor lady watch me. She did that a lot. When Mari came back the next day, she looked awful and she was crying. She said Mando would not be coming home again. And that’s the last time he was ever spoken of again in our house. Sometime later, it was the neighbor lady who told me he was dead.

After that day that Mari came home from looking for Mando, she never was right again. Always crying, or sick, or asleep, or gone for hours. Then one day, I woke up from a nap on her bed and she wasn’t home. The door to our apartment was open and I took my bottle and went out into the hallway, where I just walked around and cried. I guess the neighbor lady heard me because she came out in the hall and found me. She walked me back to our apartment and noticed the door open and no Mari. We stayed in our apartment for awhile, but then she took me to her apartment. After a day or two, she went back to the apartment, got all my things, my toys—I didn’t have many—and my clothes and most of the food in the apartment.

The neighbor lady was a black woman named, Rita. Rita Knowles. She’s my mother now. I call her Mama Rita. Here’s how she became my mother. Or so I’m told.

A few days after I came to Mama Rita’s there was a real commotion out in the hallway at my old apartment. Or so I’m told. I was sleeping. Mama Rita thought it might be my Mom coming back so she went to investigate. It turns out it was two police officers banging on the door. When they saw her, they asked if anyone lived there. She said, yes, Mari lived there. Mama Rita has been around awhile and she knew all about my Mom’s problem. She wasn’t going to give them too much information. Most of the neighbors kept out of everybody else’s way and minded their own business.

The officer said, not anymore on account of she was dead. She overdosed, they said, in an alley about three blocks away. They couldn’t revive her, but her last words were, Baby OK. They wanted to know if there was a baby there. Mama Rita said No. I know she was hoping I didn’t wake up and let out a scream. And I didn’t. The officers thanked her and left. That was 34 years ago.

Somehow, God only knows what strings they had to pull, Mama Rita and her husband, Francisco, adopted me. I think they made up some story about Francisco’s sister dying in Mexico and me having to come live with them since she didn’t have any family. Frank, as she called him, died about two years after the adoption. So it’s been me and Mama Rita eversince.

I’m a police officer now. I get to go around to people’s homes and tell them that their people are dead. Or I get to arrest someone in the home, someone who’s a scumbag, but when I find them, they’re just hanging out with their family or whoever is there. They’re in their t-shirts and shorts watching TV, playing cards. A normal day. But make no mistake, they’re bad. They deal heroin. They’ve killed someone earlier that day or a month ago. Sometimes I have to tell the people that a brother or a sister, uncle, father, or whatever are dead. They’ve been murdered by the guy in the t-shirt or were given their last hit of heroin on earth by the guy in the t-shirt.

This is my life now. Mama Rita doesn’t like it, but she understands.

Chapter 2

The bitch has to die. She’s no good. She’s infected.

She’s so young. Why does she have to be so young?

He opened the car door and walked toward the trunk, listening as he walked to the back of the car. The night was cold and dark, a thick, damp mist hovering in the forest obscured any moonlight. Silence…in the car and around the woods. Maybe she’s dead already, he thought. If so, he could just dump her. It wouldn’t be like before when he had to kill them.

She put up a hell of a fight at the place. She begged for her life as she lay on the floor after he’d struck her in the face…that beautiful face…and kicked her in the side. She said she was only kidding when she said she’d turn him in. Said she was just mad at him for being so rough with her during the film shoot. He was putting her livelihood at risk. Nobody wants a bruised and swollen prostitute, she said. Damn her for thinking she could turn him in. Who did she think she was? He had friends in town. They’d never believe a whore like her. That’s all she was. An addict and a whore like the others. Filth. Diseased filth.

He was definitely taking a lot of risks these days. He’d lose his job if anyone at work found out about the films. These films were shipped overseas only. He made sure of that and no Internet porn either. Too popular. He was paying big money not to get found out. But that would have to end soon, too.

As he opened the trunk, he saw her eyes staring wildly up at him, her wavy red hair matted with the blood from the blows to her face and head. For a moment he lowered the door, not able to look at her. Then he thrust it open in a rage and pulled her from the car and dragged her into the woods.

Her whimpering didn’t carry any weight with him. She had a son, for Christ’s sake. What kind of mother does what she does? He knew only too well…a mother like his. At least the son lived with an aunt and that’s where he should stay. The little boy should never know what a sick whore his mother was. He was better off without her that was for sure. He’d take care of that…the kid would never know his mother.

When his rage passed, all he saw was the bloody heap on the ground. Unrecognizable. Unmoving. No beautiful face…bearly any face at all. The only red waves that flowed now were from the blood seeping into the dirt.

He had done it again.

Chapter 3

Come on, pickup, Asshole. he said,

Carlos Marks paced back and forth in his office as he waited out the rings. Lately Marks was short on patience. His life was unraveling quickly. He didn’t want to leave a message. That would be too easy. He wanted the guy answering to hear how aggravated he was.

On the sixth ring, an answer. Yeah, talk.

Marks didn’t identify himself. He didn’t need to. The man knew who he was. Tonight. Usual place. 7 o'clock. Be there. Bring it. Don’t disapp...

The man hung up. Marks slammed the phone down.

Asshole.

He was even getting weary of this game. He’d made enough money off of the guy anyway. The main thing was Marks had to end the blackmail. Disappear for awhile. The women in the sex videos kept turning up dead in and around Quinton and he didn’t know why. It wasn’t part of the deal. No snuff films. He had his standards.

At 6:50, Carlos Marks turned on his flashlight and placed it on top of a filing cabinet in a deserted, burned-out factory in the north end of Quinton. Leaning on the cabinet, he savored a cigarette and waited for his mark in what was once a foreman’s office in this former assembly room. The small office escaped most of the fire, but the wall beside him was scorched badly and the floor had several burned planks. He coughed lightly from taking in the pungent odor of damp, burnt wood. On top of everything else, he was coming down with a cold. He didn’t want to wait long.

Soon in the faint light, Marks could see the large dark figure approaching him.

Good. Right on time.

Evening, he said, crushing out his cigarette on the file cabinet. Hurry up. Give it to me. I got places to go.

You'll go to hell tonight. The man’s face was rigid with anger.

Oh, come on, my friend. Marks glared at the man. You are really pissing me off tonight. Remember, I’m the one saving your stupid, twisted ass. Give me the money and let’s get the hell out of here. It’s fucking cold in here and I’m getting sick.

The man deliberately walked slowly toward Marks. As he spoke, spurts of fog from his breath drifted in the chilled night air. Tonight I call the shots. I’m done takin’ you’re shit. You're gettin’ nothing more from me until we make the trade as planned.

We don’t have a plan. And, like I said, you’re pissing me off. I’m here for the money. I don’t have your stuff with me. I’m not a fool like you. I don’t do stupid shit.

You said you’d have it with you. You said tonight would be the las… Now the man was nearly whining.

Whoa…where’s the macho guy? You’re acting like a real pussy. You know that? I know what I said, but I changed my mind…for now.

The man’s pitiful look turned instantly to rage again and he grabbed Marks under his arm. Go, he demanded, marching Marks a step forward.

Go where? Marks jerked free and stepped aside. I'm busy I told you. People are expecting me. Just give me the money. You'll get what you want in due time.

I’m gonna get it tonight, he said, landing a forceful punch in Mark’s stomach.

He doubled over onto the floor, gasping in pain. When he tried to stagger up, the man hit him again. This time he fell backwards into the remains of a partially burned paneled wall and slid down the wall and onto his knees.

Get up.

I—can't—, Asshole. He coughed and stumbled forward on the floor.

Get the fuck up.

Hey! Wha’ the hell, said the homeless man sleeping against the wall in the alcove of 813 Armory Street, a three-story office building on the main east-west street in downtown Quinton.

 He was so drunk he could barely move, but he knew he'd been kicked hard. The piercing pain in his side told him that much. His head jerked up from his chest long enough to see a dark figure hurry past him and onto the sidewalk into the darkness. Even in his stupor, he thought he recognized the man.

As he shifted his smelly hulk to make the pain in his side more bearable, he pulled his dingy coat over his head. The coat, a has-been from a box at a local shelter, was two sizes too big. It gave him some cushion against the concrete, but very little warmth against the chill autumn night air. If he lived to see morning, maybe he'd check himself into the hospital detox unit one more time. In the distance he heard church bells ringing and began counting bells, slowly drifting off with each count. One. Two. Three. His head hit his chest again on the ninth chime.

The next time he woke up a man in a police uniform was only inches from his face, yelling at him. Someone else was pushing his shoulders from behind. He groaned as they jostled him about.

Can't a man get any sleep around here?

Just throw his stinkin'-ass in that cruiser over there and get him outta here, said one of the uniformed men who was directing the show on the street. He probably didn't see a thing, but don't let him go until we've had a chance to talk to him.

Come on, Buddy. At least it’s warmer where you’re going, said the nicer of the two officers who had managed to bring him to his feet between them. The officer knew him as Singing Sam, so named because he said he used to be lead singer with popular Boston band back in the day. It was hard to find anyone who had ever heard of the band.

Good. I’ve been tryin’ to get some sleep all night. Damn busy place…, the drunk said with a slur. Aggghh!, he cried out as he tried to walk and felt the pain in his side again.

Yeah, well you won't have the next place to yourself neither, said the other officer with a sneer. You can cozy up with about twenty-five other drunks sleepin’ it off. It's been quite a weekend already, and it's only the beginning.

Dazed, the drunk braced himself against his captors. But I ain’t drunk. I can count bells.  

Unimpressed with Singing Sam’s self-assessment, the officer took him up to the waiting cruiser.

Jesus, I wish they wouldn't piss all over themselves, said another cop as she opened the car door and tucked Sam in the back seat.

Inside on the second floor of 813 Armory Street two emergency medical technicians were placing the corpse of Carlos Marks on a stretcher. He’d been shot three times. The men chatted while they fastened the straps on the stretcher to take the body to the waiting ambulance. There was no hurry with this one.

Somebody must a really hated this guy’s guts, said a burly, young medic.

I'll say. He's a mess. Three big ones. One in the neck, one in the right shoulder, and for good measure—BINGO—a kill shot in the temple. You know, my brother's thinkin' about buyin' this building. I guess it's been for sale for a couple of months. He'll probably think twice now, offered the older ambulance driver.

You just never know, do you? Look at this place. It's got class. The guy had it made. Who was he?

Some photographer. Worked for the Herald now and then. I'd see him at crime scenes like these. Ironic, huh? My brother says he used to be famous. The guy owned this place. When he bought it, it was a dump, fixed it up real nice. Lived upstairs. This here is his studio, I guess.

The younger man sniffed the air and glanced around the dead photographer's reception area which was immaculate except for the red-brown puddles of blood and crimson smears on the carpet where the body lay outside the elevator doors that led directly into the room. Do you smell that?

Smell what?

Smoke. Like from burnt wood. I just got a whiff of it again.

Nah, you're smellin' death, kid. You'll get used to it. When I was in Afghanistan, death all around me, my nose would play tricks on me, too. I'd smell friggin' flowers when ain't nothin' around me was livin'.

With a shrug, the young man pushed the elevator button to take them to the first floor. I'm beginning to wonder about this town. It's getting more and more like Boston. The wife and kids and I moved here to get away from this kind of thing.

With a population of 70,000, Quinton is barely a city except by Massachusetts standards. It sits a 100 or so miles west of Boston at the gateway to the Berkshires on I-91, recently dubbed the Heroin Highway providing a great north south marketplace for dealers in the Northeast. The steep forested hills blanketed with millions of hardwood and evergreen trees neatly meet pasture land dotted with grazing dairy cattle. The Connecticut River, fed by many smaller rivers, cuts a silver swath across the landscape. As they did for centuries, these hills