Bite Me dh-3 Read online

“Oh?” I sat up interested.

  “Just routine.”

  “Name a time,” I said, leering out the window at a nice looking mommy in tight little yellow shorts, pushing a stroller across the street.

  “I thought you had meetings?” he said.

  “Things are moving along a lot faster than I thought. I could actually wind this up in, oh I don’t know, maybe the next thirty or forty-five minutes.”

  “Sure, you can, that’s great,” he said, sounding like he didn’t mean a word of it.

  “See you in an hour?” I asked.

  “You know where we are?” he said.

  “Yeah, been there once or twice before, see you in an hour.”

  I strolled over to The Spot, figured a quick beer couldn’t hurt, stayed for two, before I drove down to Manning’s office at police headquarters. I cooled my heels in the lobby until someone came down to get me.

  Wayneta Van Haug, pronounced Juanita, was decidedly overweight, always crabby and unfortunately named. She was a uniformed officer, and one immediately wondered where you purchased uniforms that large. She had not a drop of Hispanic heritage. She did however have four older brothers, Wayne, du Wayne, de Wayne, da Wayne. Her ill advised parents attempted to maintain the family tradition when their darling daughter was born and so named her Wayneta. We all make mistakes.

  “I know you from some where’s” she said, once we were in the elevator.

  We were ascending six floors. The elevator creaked and shuddered and I was genuinely concerned I might not make it with Wayneta on board. I clung tightly to the hand rail on the back wall and focused on the digital floor readout as we groaned our way up to six.

  “Where’d we meet? You been hauled in here before?” she asked, and leaned intimidatingly closer.

  I continued to focus on the digital readout over the door. Third floor seemed to be taking its own sweet time.

  “I’ve been in a few times. I’m a private investigator, I’ve worked with Detective Manning before. Worked with Lieutenant Aaron LaZelle, over in vice, a few times, maybe you know him. We probably met that way, or maybe you just saw me or heard about me from those guys. Nice to see you again,” I said, thinking I couldn’t possibly forget ever meeting her.

  She half scoffed under her breath.

  “He told me, just to bring you up here, don’t know why he didn’t want to put you in an interrogation room,” she said staring at me.

  We were coming up on five, not fast enough for my taste.

  “Just some general background information, I witnessed something the other day, thought I might be able to help Manning with his ongoing investigation.”

  That got me another scoff. Mercifully six finally blinked on. We seemed to just hold there for an ungodly length of time. I was sure the computer was busy calculating how many seconds remained before the elevator cable snapped and we dropped to the basement. Eventually the doors groaned open.

  “Six,” Wayneta said and stepped off into the hallway. The elevator rose an inch or two and I quickly jumped off behind her.

  “He’s in there,” she said pointing to a door labeled Homicide. Then turned and waddled toward where the donuts were kept.

  I quickly headed for the safety of Homicide, knocked and stepped into a small lobby with a receptionist’s window. A guy in plain clothes was walking past the window and glanced out at me.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, Devlin Haskell, to see Detective Manning.”

  “He expecting you?”

  “He is.”

  “Hey Man Eater, some guy named Haskell to see you.” He called then walked away.

  Chapter Ten

  Manning suddenly appeared at the window.

  “Haskell, thanks for coming down, come on in,” he said then buzzed something that opened the security door next to the receptionist window and I walked in.

  Manning’s battleship grey cubicle was devoid of any personality, not so much as the photograph of a dog. It did look neat, orderly and gave the sense of a highly efficient individual in residence.

  “Grab that chair there, will you,” he indicated a chrome and grey fabric chair next to a black, two drawer file cabinet.

  I sat, looked around quickly, not that there was anything to see.

  “You want some coffee?” he asked, blue eyes fixed on me, he raised a paper coffee cup from a vending machine to his lips, slurped, grimaced then waited.

  “No thanks, I’ve had stuff from your machine before.”

  “Can’t say that I blame you,” he said then slurped again.

  I hadn’t done anything wrong, at least in regard to the KRAZ shooting, but I was still on guard.

  Manning set his coffee cup on the desk area behind him, picked up a thin file, flicked through a couple of pages, then read for what seemed a long moment before he looked up. While he read I examined the top of his bald head. It was decidedly pink, as if it had been somehow contaminated by his fringe of red hair. I figured him for one of those redheads who never tan, but just burn to varying degrees.

  “Look, let me level with you, the K-R-A-Z deal, it isn’t adding up.”

  “Not adding up?” I wasn’t following.

  “Here’s the deal, you were there, you seem to have some limited experience, so that’s why I wanted to chat.”

  I nodded.

  “It’s a drive by, theoretically. No one’s hit, that’s good. No impact site located from the shots that were supposedly fired, that’s not so good. Depending on which statement we’re dealing with, some say two some say three shots fired. You say two, along with a couple of others. I’ve got a couple of the news guys who swear three shots. Not unusual. Really doesn’t matter and no way we can seem to confirm or deny, at least at this point.” He picked up his coffee and slurped some more, then sat back waiting for my reply.

  “If it’s a drive by, I mean this wasn’t gang bangers sticking a MAC 10 out the window and spraying someone’s front porch. This was two, I think, two definite shots fired, no more than a second apart, from a moving vehicle. It seems logical the shooter might have missed,” I said.

  Manning nodded in agreement.

  “What do the cameras have? There were news crews there, they must have filmed the thing. They got it all on film right? Audio?”

  “Wrong. Two cameras, plus a recorder from the reporter woman…”

  “Tiffany what’s her name.”

  “Kinny. Tiffany Kinny, Channel Nine. They were all turned off, somewhere between rambling from the Bill of Rights, through the Declaration of Independence to Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address they turned off the cameras. Your girlfriend Tiffany switched off her recorder. Save on batteries, I guess. Anyway, all we’ve got is that pudgy little guy…”

  “Thompson Barkwell.”

  “That’s him, got him going on and on.”

  “Tell me about it,” I groaned.

  “The next thing we see is your pal Farrell huddled on the ground on top of Barkwell.”

  “Yeah, you know in defense of him, Barkwell might have been huddling, but Farrell covered the guy. I mean, regardless of what you’re suggesting, all he knew is someone was shooting and he protected Barkwell. That takes some brass ones.”

  “So you say.”

  “Ever been shot at, Detective?”

  Manning nodded then went in a different direction.

  “How long have you been working for K-R-A-Z, craze?”

  “Actually just a few days, they let me go yesterday as a matter of fact.”

  “Let you go?”

  “Yeah, said they had things in hand, send them an invoice, that sort of deal. I was gonna drop it off, the invoice, after this. Got it out in my car if you want to see it?”

  “Can you just email me a copy?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” figuring I could get Sunnie Einer, my computer gal to show me how.

  “Why’d they let you go? You’d figure after someone took a couple of shots at them they’d want protection, such as it is
,” he looked me up and down. “You have an argument or anything?”

  “Argument? Why would you think that?” regretting the question before it had left my lips.

  “Nothing really, just seemed you got a bit, oh I don’t know, exercised maybe. When we were all up in the office the other afternoon and Barkwell asked you about security, remember?”

  “Well, I think I said something like I knew about the press conference fifteen seconds before it happened. That’s a literal time frame by the way, not just some figure of speech. We’re walking down the damn staircase on the way to the thing, he tells me about it just before we walked through the door and suddenly we’re standing in front of reporters and cameras.”

  “Would you have done anything differently?”

  “Probably not, I mean if you had to hold the damn thing outside, to be honest that was as good a place as any. Would have been better in an enclosed area, but I get it. It’s just that the whole thing was a surprise they had to know it was going to happen an hour, two hours, maybe the day before. Never bothered to tell me and then it’s my fault? Christ, kiss my butt.”

  “No thanks.” Manning might have actually smiled.

  “Like I said, other than getting paid, I’m out of it.”

  Manning nodded.

  “Any women work there?”

  “Women?”

  “Yeah, you know, nice looking, perfume, don’t want to associate with guys like you. Any women work there?”

  I let his comment go.

  “No, at least as far as I know. Obviously, I haven’t been around there all that much. You were up there, the office is small to begin with, national headquarters or not. They’ve got junk piled everywhere. I’ve only see the two of them there, Thompson Barkwell and Farrell J. Earley, no other employees, male or female as far as I know. Tell you the truth I think they’re running on a shoestring. My impression is they don’t have the funds to pay anyone, at least not much.”

  “You worried about getting paid?” he was flipping through a couple of pages from the file on his lap, pretending to read. I was sure he was listening for any telltale sign.

  “Yeah somewhat. Barkwell told me they have to run my invoice past some committee or board or some damn thing, get the thing approved before they can pay it.”

  “And that worries you?”

  “Not as far as actually getting paid, it’s just that he said the committee meets in almost five weeks. Do the math, five weeks before they meet. Then get the run around for another week before the check’s cut, another week before it’s in the mail. It’s two damn months before I’m paid.”

  “We talking a lot?”

  “Not really, it’s just the principle of the thing.”

  “That’s what springs to mind when I think of you, Haskell, principle.”

  I ignored his comment.

  “They’re just jacking me around, and any other guy stupid enough to deal with them, comes with the territory, I guess.”

  “You remember who made the 911 call?”

  “No. Tell you the truth, I was watching the car drive off, not that it did any good.”

  “It was a woman’s voice,” Manning was back to flipping pages, looking disinterested.

  “Well to be honest, there wasn’t much of a crowd, hell, there wasn’t a crowd. I mean, Barkwell, Farrell J., that Tiffany chick, some other guy, two cameramen. That was it. Well and me, six, seven total. There wasn’t a crowd the whole thing was staged for the news cameras.”

  Manning nodded.

  “Tiffany was on a phone when we first came out of the building, in fact she asked Barkwell to repeat himself because she sort of missed whatever he said initially. She the one who called 911?”

  “Nope,” Manning shook his head. “Fact is, the call came from about two blocks away. We triangulated the towers, call came from a disposable phone, false records plus thirty five dollars cash and you’re good to go. It’s a dead end.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “You think? The whole deal is strange. Look, thanks for your time,” Manning said getting to his feet, then held out his hand.

  His hand was like shaking a brick, no give when I squeezed.

  “Can you find your way out? If not I could always get officer Van Haug to escort you back down.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said and made my way to the door.

  “Mister Haskell, good luck with your invoice, you’ll email a copy, right?”

  “Thanks, I will,” I said and left.

  Chapter Eleven

  I pulled into the parking lot at the international headquarters of KRAZ. I dodged a couple of the potholes and parked. Some newspaper and a BBQ potato chip bag scuttled past me as I walked into the building. I took the back steps up to the sixth floor, by the time I made it to the top I had to pause a moment to catch my breath before I walked down the hallway to the office.

  I remembered not to swing the door widely when I went in. Instead, I sort of stepped sideways to enter the office.

  “Halt, identify yourself.”

  “What?”

  “Identify yourself,” a short, fat guy groaned as he came out of a chair in the process of blinking himself awake. He was dressed in camouflaged combat fatigues that looked brand new. They were a woodland pattern, not the digitized stuff like we had in Iraq. He had gold Sergeant Major stripes sewn on both sleeves. He wore spit polished combat boots with his trousers bloused into the top of the boots. An olive drab web belt was cinched snugly around his forty-six inch waist. He fumbled with the top of a black leather holster at his side.

  I spun him around, pushed him up against the wall, pinned his arm behind his back then pulled a forty-five caliber pistol out of his holster.

  “Ouch, ouch, get off, get off damn it, you’re killing me,” he groaned.

  “You idiot, this damn thing is loaded,” I said and yanked his arm up higher behind his back.

  “Aw, God, uncle, okay, okay, I give up, let me go, I’ll talk, I’ll talk.”

  I released my grip and took a step back, extracted the clip from the pistol, then pulled the slide back and ejected a round that bounced across the floor.

  “What the hell is this? You’re lucky you haven’t killed someone or shot yourself, you boob. Who the hell are you?”

  He wore a pained look on his face, his jowls and chins suddenly became flushed. He stood there looking hurt and rubbing his elbow. The web belt around his waist was cinched tightly around his massive midsection, a large roll of fat ballooned above and below the belt.

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked again.

  “Hogue, Matthias, C. Command Sergeant Major. Four-five-five, three-five…”

  “Shut up, you fuckwit. Don’t give me that name, rank and serial number bullshit or I’ll…”

  “Sergeant Major is everything… Oh, you.” Thompson Barkwell stood in the doorway leading back to his office, he sounded disappointed.

  “He doesn’t have the password, sir?” The camouflaged toad said, then sniffled and continued to rub his elbow.

  I glared at him.

  He took a step back and stared at the floor.

  “At ease, Sergeant Major.” Thompson Barkwell looked me over. “I thought we dismissed you yesterday, what do you want, Hastings?” he said.

  “Haskell. Just dropping off my invoice, Tommy. I didn’t think I was going to be breeching your security. Password? Are you guys nuts, a fucking password isn’t going to help. I’m already in here.”

  I made my thumb and forefinger into a gun, pointed it at Sergeant Major Tubby and dropped my thumb. “Bang! Your fat ass is dead.”

  I pointed at Thompson, dropped my thumb, twice for good measure. “Bang, bang, you’re really dead, Tommy.”

  “That sort of behavior is neither necessary nor helpful,” Thompson said.

  I just shook my head.

  “Look, if you guys are really under threat, you’d better start taking things a little more seriously and knock off the toy soldie
r bullshit. That sure as hell ain’t cuttin’ it.”

  “Was there some purpose to your unauthorized visit this afternoon?” Thompson asked.

  I took a deep breath, attempted to relax.

  “Yeah, here’s my invoice. Payment upon receipt,” I said, handing him the envelope with the invoice enclosed.

  He looked at the envelope in my hand, but made no effort to take it.

  “And as I explained to you, yesterday. Your invoice will be reviewed at our next board meeting.”

  “You did explain that. And, as I told you, I would be dropping this invoice off, today, and my terms are payment upon receipt.”

  “Do you have a signed contract, Mister Haskell?”

  “You know I don’t. But I think under the circumstances you might just want me paid and out of your hair.”

  “What circumstances would those be?”

  “Well, for starters, I just came from the police station. They called me down for a chat. They seemed to be a little curious about the attempt on your life. You know, the press conference, the shooting, the…”

  “Our right to free speech shall not be silenced. We…”

  “The phone call to 911. Made from a couple of blocks away, you know, you should have thought things through a little better, before you had her call,” I bluffed.

  It was Thompson Barkwell’s turn to go red faced.

  “I’ll take that, wait here while I cut you a check,” he said, then snatched the envelope out of my hand and stomped back toward his office.

  “Could I, could I have my gun back?” the Sergeant Major whined.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “It’s, it’s not mine it belongs to one of the other guys on the team.”

  “Team?”

  “Seal Team Six, there’s six of us. We’ve sworn an oath…”

  “Stop, before I really hurt you. Seal Team Six, this isn’t some fucking toy, numb nuts, this thing is loaded. In fact you know what, spoils of war, I’m keeping it. You better find a new line of work because this sure as hell doesn’t seem to fit you.”

  “But I promised, I’d take care…”

  “Mister Haskell, here, your deed is done, now get out.” Thompson called from behind me then thrust a check in my direction.