 
Big Guy

A Mel "Big Guy" Wakefield Mystery

By Darryl Matter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 by Darryl Matter

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Big Guy

A Mel "Big Guy" Wakefield Mystery

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

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Chapter 1

Somebody put coins in the jukebox. It began to play a slow country song. A young couple, a blonde girl in bright orange shorts and a neon-green tank-top and a guy wearing faded jeans and a nondescript t-shirt, began dancing to the measured beat, hugging each other close as they swayed around the tiny dance floor in Al's Tavern.

The girl was as colorful as the boy was drab, just the opposite of birds, I thought, where the male is the flashy one and the female the mousey-looking one. Then, I had to smile, thinking of how my old friend, Henry Tucker, used to say that slow dancing was just hugging set to music.

I was seated at my usual table in a corner at the front of the tavern where I could keep an eye on the front door as well as the people in the tavern. Things were quiet. It was early yet. Still, a few of our regular patrons were already enjoying themselves at the pool tables or at the bar, and I knew the place would be filled to near capacity in another hour or so.

The jukebox music stopped. The girl and guy gave each other a lingering, affectionate hug. I watched as they sauntered arm-in-arm to the bar, then returned to their table with mugs of foaming beer in hand. Two other guys walked in about then, looking end-of-the-day tired. They soon were followed by three girls, all wearing similar cut-offs and t-shirts, laughing and calling out to their friends who were already there. I recognized them as some of our more lively regulars. Yes, things already were picking up.

The brown-haired girl in the carefully tailored suit and low-heeled pumps who hesitantly followed the three girls through the heavy double doors appeared altogether out of place in Al's Tavern. Oh, we get a few bored young housewives and affluent but jaded older women from the suburbs who wear skirts or tailored slacks and blouses and high-heeled sandals and come here to get picked up, but this little girl didn't strike me as one of them.

It wasn't just that her way of dressing, unlike our typical patron's tank-top and denim cut-offs, announced "white-collar office worker" because we get our fair share of after-office-hours drop-ins just about every weekday afternoon. This girl appeared so, well, innocent, so bewildered, in a tavern where sex and high-spirited carousing are uppermost in most of the patron's minds.

Once inside, the girl appeared increasingly anxious and ill at ease. She paused uncertainly, her eyes darting around the room as they adjusted to the flashing red and black neon lights that dimly illuminate the tavern even when it's broad daylight outside. I wondered if she ever had been in a place like ours before. Just as I started to go ask if I could help her, but before I had taken two steps, I saw Al come from behind the bar and call to her.

Al's my partner. The two of us, Al O'Brian and I, own Al's Tavern. He tends the bar and I manage the floor. So far it's been a good arrangement. Each of us does what he does best for our mutual benefit.

It's my job to keep order in the place. Yup, I'm the chief bouncer, and I enjoy my work. I looked around the room to be sure things were quiet and that another of our bouncers, Landon, was on the job. When I looked back toward Al and the girl, he was pointing her in my direction. I could even read his lips: ". . . the big guy in the blue shirt."

Al's a tough old sailor who retired from Uncle Sam's Navy some 10 years back. He's been all over the world, in the worst bars and the best ones, both as customer and bartender, and he's as good a judge of people as I've ever known. He doesn't take anything off anybody, and he never would have pointed me out to the girl if he hadn't thought she was okay. In my book, his doing so was a good recommendation for the girl, whoever she was and whatever she wanted.

The girl spotted me, then actually turned back and took time to thank Al for his help before she headed my way. That act of thanking Al set her apart from many of our patrons who, although they're nice enough people, are typically a little shy on manners.

I met the girl halfway to my table, studying her as we approached each other. Pretty girl, no doubt about it, and without a lot of makeup. Soft, delicate feataures. Tiny little thing, no more than 5'-2" and very slender. Dressed very conservatively, a secretary maybe. Wearing a very light, floral scent. By the time she reached me, I also could see that her face was puffy around her eyes. She'd been crying, and she looked, well, tired.

This girl's light fragrance brought back thoughts of another girl, another time, another place--half a world away. It was the same scent my Stephanie had worn. And it brought back with it beautiful memories of Stephanie along with the hellish memories associated with her death, memories I thought I'd successfully repressed. Maybe you never do repress memories like those.

"Mr. Wakefield?" Her voice was a shy and girlish whisper, almost apologetic, as if she was afraid she'd bother me. Maybe that was just because she was feeling out of place in Al's.

I nodded. "Friends call me 'Mel'--or 'Big Guy.'"

"Mel. May I call you . . . Mel?" Somehow, my name sounded smooth like honey on her tongue.

"Please do." I grinned at her, and she managed a little smile of her own in return.

"Mel, I'm Sandy Duboise," she whispered in her breathy way. She held out her hand primly and I took it, my big hand swallowing her little one.

"That man," she continued, "I guess he's the bartender, called you 'Big Guy.'" She almost smiled again as she looked at my hand wrapped around hers and then tilted her head upward to take in my shaved head and closely trimmed beard. "He sure is right about that! You are a big guy!"

Duboise. I guessed right away who she was, but I'd let her tell me. No way could I think of a way to respond to what she was saying so I just grinned down at her. Al and a bunch of other people call me "Big Guy." I don't really feel big, but because I stand 6'-6" and weigh 245 pounds, I guess they are right!

"What can I do for you, Sandy?"

Any hint of a smile disappeared. She was all business now. "I'm Floyd Duboise's sister. Do . . . Do you remember him?"

Of course, I remembered him. Floyd Duboise and I had been in the service together, and we'd seen each other through some pretty scary situations. "Sure, I remember Floyd," I replied. "Haven't seen him for quite awhile, though. How is he?"

Big tears welled up in Sandy's soft brown eyes. She daubed at her face with a tissue as they rolled down her cheeks. All of a sudden, I guessed why she had come here looking for me. "He . . . He's dead!" she blurted out and put a little fist to her mouth to stifle a sob much as a child might have done.

"I'm sorry, Sandy. I didn't know. I've been out of town all week and haven't caught up on the news."

"It's okay." Sandy wiped hard at her eyes and cheeks with the tissue. The tears were coming faster now. "You might not have heard about it even if you were here. They . . . didn't even mention him on the television news, and there were just four or five lines in the newspaper, way back in the back pages. It was like . . . like nobody cared."

Sandy paused to fumble in her handbag for another tissue, blow her nose, and wipe her eyes, then continued. "My brother always spoke so highly of you, Mel. Said you were the best friend he had in the service. Said you were a real good man. Military Police, I think he said?" I nodded that she was right.

"Well, I came to you because there are things that I've been told about my brother's death that don't add up in my mind and . . . and . . . ." Her voice trailed off into a little sob.

I gave her a minute, then asked as gently as I could, "and what, Sandy?"

"And I . . . I'm . . . I'm scared! Something happened last night that . . . that really scared me. When . . . When I got off work today, I was even too scared to go home. My brother was my only real friend, and now I feel so . . . so alone. That's why I came to talk to you. He . . . Floyd . . . told me you worked here and if I ever needed a friend, I could trust you."

It was obvious from the look of helplessness on her face that she really was hurting. Maybe a little talking would help. "Tell me what's been going on, Sandy."

I pulled a chair around next to mine at the table, and she sort of folded herself into it. I sat so that I could keep a vigilant eye on the growing clientele without giving Sandy the impression that I wasn't interested in what she was saying.

"I . . . just . . . I don't even know where to start!" She was crying now.

"Just start anywhere, Sandy," I encouraged her. "We'll fit things together later."

Sandy wiped her eyes again, shook her head like she was trying to put her thoughts back in place, and began: "Okay. I . . . I'll try. Maybe you know Floyd's been working over at the Hit and Run, that sporting goods place over at the back of the mall?" I listened without comment, not wanting to let her know how little her brother and I had seen of each other over the past few years.

"Well," she continued, "about two weeks ago Floyd mentioned that he might quit his job at the sporting goods store and start working for the police, not as a policeman but, well, as part of some kind of an undercover sting operation. I didn't understand quite what he was saying or what he would be doing, and I didn't think much about his working for the police at the time, but after all that's happened lately, well, I've been wondering about it, and I wanted to mention it."

I nodded my encouragement, then glanced around the room. Things seemed to be in good order. Before Sandy could continue, though, Annie Lee, our number-one waitress, came over. I introduced the two girls, telling Annie how Sandy's brother was a good friend of mine from the service and how he'd been killed just a few days earlier.

"Oh, Sandy, I'm so sorry!" Annie has a ring or two on every finger, and they all seemed to sparkle or glow as she impulsively put her hand on Sandy's and gave it an affectionate squeeze. I couldn't help but notice that Sandy's fingers, in contrast to Annie's, were without ornamentation. Annie asked if we'd like something to drink.

I turned to Sandy. "Would you like something? My treat?"

"I'm sorry, I . . . I don't drink." Sandy obviously was flustered by my offer.

"We've got soft drinks." Annie's a "good ole gal" and picked up right away on Sandy's discomfort at being in Al's. "How about a Coke?"

"That would be nice. Thank you."

"Sandy, you must be hungry if you came here directly from work, and we do serve some great sandwiches. Still my treat," I offered.

"Can we tempt you?" Annie asked.

Sandy looked tempted.

"Levi--Levi's our cook--makes a great ham sandwich," Annie coaxed. "It's one of our specials tonight. I've just had one, and it was extra good."

Sandy was smiling again. "Thanks. That would be nice, too. I am hungry, and I'd really like one." Most folks find it hard to resist Annie's coaxing, one reason why she's our very best waitress.

"Bring me a Coke, too," I told Annie, then unobtrusively pointed to myself to let her know I wanted her to put Sandy's sandwich and Coke on my tab.

Annie nodded her head in understanding and hurried off, and Sandy continued: "Like I was saying, that was the last time I saw my brother, about two weeks ago. I didn't see him again. Then, just two nights ago, about four in the morning, there was a loud knock at my door and a man's voice hollering for me to open up because it was the police. All the commotion scared me half to death, but I let the man in when he flashed a badge. He just blurted out, 'I've got bad news for you. Your brother's dead.'

"Well, I almost fainted before he pushed a chair under me. When my mind stopped reeling, I asked him what had happened. All he would say was somebody had killed Floyd and it looked to him like a drug deal gone bad.

"I told him right out that he had to be mistaken because my brother never used or dealt in drugs! And do you know what he did? He just laughed at me and told me in a very condescending voice, 'Honey, that's what they all say.'

"Then he told me they found traces of cocaine and maybe other drugs in Floyd's jacket pockets. Said somebody hit him on the head with a baseball bat or a pipe or something like that. Said they'd found Floyd's car and had impounded it, and that they were going to search his room. He lived at the Pleasanton Hotel, you know. Then that cop just got up and left. Didn't say he was sorry or anything! Just walked out and left me sitting there numb and all by myself."

"Just like that? He didn't ask you anything about Floyd or--?"

"Nothing. Just when he first came in he said something like 'You are Sandy Duboise and Floyd Duboise was your brother, wasn't he?' Just to check, you know, to be sure I was the right person."

"Did you get his name?"

"Not for sure. Something that started with a 'B' like 'Bloom' something or . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry. I was just too shocked to focus and . . . and he didn't leave a card or anything! I . . . I'm sorry I didn't get his name."

"It's okay. As shook up as you must have been, I'm not surprised you didn't catch his name. Have the police been around to see you since, Sandy?"

"That's . . . That's the scary part. Last night, just as I was going to bed about nine, there was another loud knock on my door. There were two cops this time. Maybe I made them mad, but I asked if they had some identification before I let them in. They flashed their badges and then just shoved me out of the way and pushed their way into my living room! Sat down on my sofa. Told me that my brother had $100,000 in cash that belonged to them--well, to the police. They wanted to know if I knew anything about it. Well, stupid me, I said that the guy who killed him probably stole it! That's when they got really nasty and said I should leave the police work to them, that Floyd wasn't supposed to have had the money with him that night, that he was going to make a buy with it as part of an undercover operation but not that night. What they acted like was that my brother had stolen their money! And like they thought I had it!

"One of them started moving around the room and asked if I'd mind if they looked around my apartment to see if Floyd left the money there. Usually, I'm so timid that I'd agree to anything a cop asked, but I surprised them and myself by saying 'I sure do." I thought one of 'em was gonna slap me, but they just glared at me, muttered some things I couldn't understand, and started to walk out. Then, as they were leaving, one of 'em turned to me and said, 'I hope for your sake you're telling the truth when you say you don't know where that money is, little sister.' They both just radiated hate. I tell you, I was so scared . . . ." The words kept tumbling out.

"Can't blame you for being scared, Sandy. Anyone would be under those circumstances. Did you get the cops' names this time?"

Sandy almost grinned. "Sure did. Wrote 'em down, too. One's last name was Aron. I remember it because of the way it was spelled, with just one 'a.' The other's last name was English."

At that point, Annie came with our Cokes and Sandy's sandwich. When Sandy saw the size of Levi's ham sandwich and the mound of French fries with it, her eyes got big and round, and she exclaimed, "Oh, my!" Annie and I both laughed knowingly. That's the way most first-timers at Al's react to a "Levi special."

Sandy reached for her purse, but Annie smiled and said, "It's taken care of," and jerked her thumb toward me. Sandy thanked me and, from the way she tied into that sandwich, I'd say my money was well spent. I'd guess she hadn't eaten all day, maybe even for longer than that.

When Sandy finished eating, she thanked me all over again, told me how good that sandwich had been, and then got back to the reason for her visit. "I . . . I don't want them to just let Floyd's death go as another junkie-kills-a-junkie kind of thing, another unsolved and uncared about, drug-related murder. From the little there was on the news about it, I'm afraid that's exactly what is happening."

I nodded my head to show that I was following what she was saying.

"I haven't been able to eat or sleep much since this all happened. It was bad enough to lose Floyd, but . . . well, I've just got to do something about the things they're saying about him, but I don't know what or how!

"That's . . . That's why I came to you. I was hoping that you could . . . well, find out what really happened to Floyd. And, like I said, there are those things I've been told about his death that just don't add up. I don't have much money, but I do have a little set aside in a savings account for a rainy day, and I plan to pay you . . . ."

I hastened to explain to Sandy that, in my book, friends don't have to pay friends to help them when they're in trouble. And it sure sounded to me like Sandy was in trouble.

I had to agree with Sandy that there were a lot of things she'd been told about Floyd's death that didn't add up. We wouldn't have much longer to talk about them then, though. Things were still pretty calm in the back of the room, but I knew I'd better get out on the floor soon. I could tell that Sandy sensed my uneasiness and felt uncomfortable about taking up my time.

"Sandy, I've gotta agree with you that things you've told me don't add up. For one thing, I don't think your brother was into drugs. He never had anything to do with drugs that I knew of. True, he might have been conducting a buy for the police, but he should have had some serious back-up in that case. Another thing is there isn't a street punk or a junkie around who could have killed him with a baseball bat or a piece of pipe. You may not have known this, but Floyd was one helluva street fighter. He even taught street fighting techniques to some of our special forces guys while we were in the service. Off hand, I'd say that if somebody killed him with a baseball bat it must have been somebody he trusted. Somebody who hit him when he wasn't expecting it."

"Like a cop? Like one of those two bastards who . . . who, well, threatened me?" Sandy's eyes flashed anger.

I chuckled inwardly. "Bastards" sounded so out of place coming from Sandy. I hated to say it, but I'd been thinking the same way Sandy was. "Somebody like that or a trusted friend," I replied.

"I was thinking about those policemen. Do you think they could have killed him and ripped off the money for themselves? One hundred thousand dollars, even split two ways, is a lot of money. They could say he lost it and . . . ."

I didn't comment on that scary possibility. Instead, I tried to be reassuring. "Tell you what, Sandy. Let me do a little nosing around. See what I can find out about your brother's death. Maybe find out what he was doing."

"Oh, would you? Like I said, I don't have much money, but Floyd did have a small life insurance policy payable to me, so what with that and my savings account, I can and will pay you something for your time." Sandy was looking at me with those big, innocent brown eyes, so danged childlike and trusting!

"Sandy," I said, "I don't work that way. I don't take money from my friends. What say I snoop around a little and then give you a call? Let me get your phone number."

I took out my pocket notebook and wrote down both her home and work numbers, then turned my attention back to her. "By the way, how'd you get over here, Sandy? Did you drive or come by cab?"

"By cab, and I know I've got to be going and let you be at work." Her eyes dropped to the phone in its holster on my belt. Would you call a cab for me, please?"

I reached for my wallet and fished out two business cards. "I've got two good friends who drive cabs. I'm gonna call one of 'em, a guy named Ernie, and then I'll tell you about him. In fact, I'll tell you about both of my friends." I gave Ernie Wiggins's business card to Sandy and slid my phone out of its holster.

Once I was sure that Ernie was on his way, I prepared Sandy to meet him: "Ernie's big, and he's black, and he's an ex-Green Beret. He's also a rather scary guy, that is, the first time you see him."

"Scary?"

"Yup. He's scary to look at. The whole right side of his body, including his face, is a mass of scars. It's all a result of his getting burned bad in a chopper crash in the service. He looks terrible, but you don't have to be afraid of Ernie. Under those scars, he's solid gold. A nicer, more trustworthy guy, you'll never meet."

"Okay. I trust him . . . because I trust you."

"Here's what I want you to do, Sandy. On the drive back to your apartment, I want you to tell Ernie what you told me. Tell him everything. He'll listen, and he'll take a look on the street outside your apartment building to see who's around there. He'll also walk you to your door and take a look around your apartment to be sure things are okay."

"Oh! I . . . I'd sure appreciate that."

"Right. Now, Ernie's got a buddy who also drives a cab. If you need a ride, and you can't get Ernie, just call this guy." I gave her the second card. "His name's Ken Maier. He's a little guy. Not much bigger than you are. In Vietnam, Ken was a tunnel-rat. Do you know about those guys who worked the tunnels in 'Nam?"

Sandy nodded her head "yes." "Floyd told me about the Cong's tunnels, and how some of our guys went right into those tunnels after the enemy. Through water traps and . . . and everything. It almost gives me nightmares thinking about what those guys went through."

"Well, Ken's okay, too. He and Ernie back each other up when there's something going on. Give either one of 'em a call if you need a ride or if you need anything and you can't reach me. If you call Ken, tell him I recommended him. Okay?"

"Thank you." Sandy sighed. "My brother's death has been real hard for me, and I appreciate your talking to me, and . . . taking such good care of me." She smiled, looked around the room, then turned back to me. "I was scared when I came in here. Everything looked so . . . so, well, threatening. Now, I kinda like the red and black lights. They make me feel sort of, well, naughty, naughty but nice." Her voice sounded wistful.

"Our atmosphere grows on you, and, Sandy, you're welcome here anytime." I took her hand and squeezed it gently. "Before you go, let's introduce you to my buddy Al, the guy you met when you came in." I walked her to the end of the bar. Al came over.

Sandy thanked Al all over again, and they talked small talk. A little later, when we saw Ernie stick his head through the double doors, Al put his hand on her shoulder. "You need anything, honey, you call," he told her. "You make me think of my oldest daughter. I'll remember you." Al withdrew a card with the tavern's phone number on it from his shirt pocket and gave it to Sandy.

Moments later, with my assurance that I'd call her as soon as I had any news and her assurance that she would call to let me know she was safely home that night, I entrusted Sandy to Ernie's care. She'd be safe with him.
Chapter 2

Things were still quiet in Al's Tavern, but I took a walk around the room anyway just to see what was going on. A few couples already were into some heavy petting, kissing and caressing away the evening. One girl was sitting on her guy's lap, facing him, her skirt bunched up around her waist. I couldn't tell exactly what they were doing, couldn't tell and didn't really care. I'd had my chances for love years ago. Why shouldn't these kids? After all, that's what Al's Tavern is all about. It's my job to see to it that nobody disturbs people while they're having their own kinds of encounters.

Margo, one of our regulars, was seated on a stool at the bar. She threw her arm around my waist as I came by, then gave me a warm and lingering wet kiss on my lips before whispering her usual provocative greeting, "How's it hangin', Big Guy?"

Margo's a character of sorts. She's older than most of our patrons. Maybe 50, maybe a well-preserved 60. It's hard to say because she's so wonderfully good looking--whatever her age. That night she was wearing a white t-shirt featuring a set of pendulous breasts outlined in black along with the slogan "OLD, BUT STILL SWINGIN' LOW." That slogan, emphasized by Margo's own full endowment thrusting up under her shirt, surely reflects her boisterous outlook on life. You'd better believe that there are are plenty of guys who want to check out the real Margo under her tight t-shirt. She always comes in by herself, but I've never once seen her leave Al's alone.

While I moved around the room, greeting many of our regulars and eyeballing the activities, I was thinking about what Sandy had told me and how I should go about looking into Floyd's death. That I was going to do so was a foregone conclusion. No way was I going to be able to do much along that line that night, of course, but I could make arrangements to see the newspaper account of his death, limited though it might be. That's where I'd start.

I have a good source for magazines and newspapers. A friend of mine, Joe Atwood, owns and manages a small newsstand not far from Al's, and he usually has back issues of all our local papers.

Joe's a disabled veteran who lost both legs and most of his left arm while he was attempting to disarm a bomb in some hell-hole in Africa that nobody around here ever heard of. That would have been the end of the trail for a lot of guys, but Joe hasn't spent much time feeling sorry for himself. Al and I helped him finance his newsstand as soon as he got out of the hospital, and he's been doing okay ever since. Better than okay, really. In fact, that newsstand has proved to be a goldmine, and he's already thinking about adding some different items and expanding into the building next door. Al and I are even making a little on our investment at the same time.

I called Joe and told him what I was looking for. He found the right paper and the brief item about Floyd's death while I was on the phone. I told him I'd drop in the next afternoon to pick up the paper and talk with him. He said he'd keep the paper for me. Told me that he knew Floyd. That he was sorry to hear about his death.

Just as I was slipping my phone back into its holster, I saw Paul Gallagher come through the front doors. Paul's a police dispatcher and knows all the cops in the city, most by their names and the rest by their reputations. He's a vet, too, and whenever he comes by we share a few war stories before he checks out the girls, which is his main reason for being at Al's. Tonight I had something more important to talk with him about.

Things were still pretty quiet so I motioned for Paul to join me at the same corner table where Sandy and I had talked earlier. After Annie brought his beer, I asked him if he knew Floyd Duboise. He didn't, so I told him what little I knew about Floyd's murder without telling him where I'd gotten the information. I asked him if he knew a cop named something like Bloom or Bloomer who was investigating it.

"Bloom something? Bloomer? Um-mmm. Must be Bloomington. Yeah. Sam Bloomington. He's a homicide detective with the city. Old guy. He's just counting the days 'till his pension kicks in."

"Is he any good?"

"He was a pretty good detective once, but like I say, he's counting the days 'till retirement. Oh, he's still on the payroll, and he still comes to work every day, but he might as well be retired from what I hear. Does as little as he has to--at least, that's my impression from what people say."

That squared with what Sandy had said about his not pushing very hard to find out who killed Floyd. "What about two cops named Aron and English, partners maybe?"

Whoa! Paul's eyes lit up with anger. "Aron and English. Jack Aron and Bill English--now that's a totally different ballgame! Yeah, I know of 'em. Why?"

"There's a possibility that Floyd was working with them or for them in an undercover operation of some kind."

Paul shifted in his seat uncomfortably and eyeballed the other customers before responding. "You realize that I have to work with all the cops in the city, okay, Mel?"

"Yup. I know what you're saying."

"Just between you and me, Aron and English are bad news. Real bad news. They . . . . No! That's all I'm gonna say." Paul turned quiet, looked around the room once more, then turned back to me. "Are they mixed up with your buddy's death?"

I told him I didn't know. Before I could continue, however, my telephone chirped. It was Sandy, calling to tell me that she was safe at home.

"Ernie came in with me like you said he would," she told me. "He also said that he and Ken will keep an eye on my apartment whenever they're in this part of town."

Then, to my surprise and pleasure, Sandy concluded by telling me how much she liked Ernie. "I'm really glad I met him," she whispered. "He made me feel, well, special!"

There was something else I needed to talk about with Sandy. I knew that Floyd lived in the Pleasanton Hotel over on Anderson Avenue, and I needed to know if she'd made arrangements to get his things out of his room. Normally, I'd have wanted to go through his things myself, but I figured the police already would have searched and sealed his room, and I was right.

"This cop, Bloom-something, told me he'd call me when the police were finished with Floyd's room," Sandy volunteered.

I told her that I thought the detective's name was Sam Bloomington, then asked her to call me when she heard from him and before she went to get Floyd's things. I explained that I wanted to look at the room, and that we could go together to get Floyd's things.

Sandy thanked me again--saying "thank you" and apologizing seemed to be what Sandy did best. Then she told me all over again how much she liked Ernie. I told her I did, too. Finally, I wished her a good night's sleep.

Paul Gallagher hadn't come to Al's to talk to me, of course. Like I said, he's here regularly to check out the girls. By the time I'd finished talking with Sandy, he was three tables away, getting acquainted with the buxom brunette in the low-cut blouse and dangling earrings who was sitting there. He was sitting across from her, seeming fascinated by those earrings. At least, he was fingering one of them and listening to her with rapt attention when I walked by. No time to interrupt him, I could tell.

I was taking another measured walk around the room. Two girls were slamming balls around a pool table, no doubt practicing for our ladies' pool tournament, scheduled for the night after next. As usually happens, a bunch of guys had gathered to watch the girls play and were openly looking down the girls' tops whenever they bent over the table. The girls didn't seem to be paying any attention to the guys--too intent on practicing their shots. That all would change later.

Before long, a guy and his girl came in, bought beers at the bar, checked out another pool table, and began to play. I recognized her as another of our regulars. She'd be playing in the upcoming ladies' pool tournament, too.

By the time I got back around front where I'd left Paul and the brunette, they were gone. If I knew Paul, I didn't need to talk to him any more anyway. He'd do some checking into the investigation of Floyd's death on his own and get back with me if he learned anything of interest.

From then on, I didn't have much time to think about Floyd or Sandy. Things got pretty lively, and while there weren't any fights to interrupt or drunks that needed my assistance in leaving, I had to keep a close eye on things the rest of the evening. I couldn't expect Landon to keep on top of all the action by himself.

Besides, I already had some ideas about people I wanted to talk to about Floyd on the next day. Find out what he was doing over the past few weeks--and who he was working with. See what I could learn about his death.
Chapter 3

Al's Tavern is both a business and a home for me. When Al and I bought the place, it already was named "Al's Tavern." Maybe that was one of the reasons it appealed to us. Seemed almost like an good omen or some such. Anyway, the original "Al" had lived up above the tavern on the building's second floor.

I appropriated one of the four rooms on the second floor for my sleeping quarters. Al and I both thought it would be a good idea for one of us to live on the premises, and Al already lived in his own house across town with a wife and a couple of teenage children as well as a disabled mother-in-law. To say nothing of several cats and dogs.

After I moved in, I remodeled a large upstairs closet adjoining the room of my choice into a big bathroom. It's not the fanciest arrangement, but it sure beats the shower stall, sink, and toilet that the original Al used. Besides, I'm not a fancy kind of guy, and it's just right for me. Like I said, it's home to me.

There's not much furniture in my room. I've got an oversized bed--a guy my size needs one--and a mid-sized dresser for my clothes. Besides those things, there's a table that serves as my desk when I have paperwork to do and a chair I brought up from the bar. The table and chair take up one whole corner of my room. There's a clothes closet, of course, and I keep my footlocker--where else?--at the foot of my bed.

Unlike some vets, I never collected many souvenirs. There are a couple of small, colorful oil paintings that I picked up at a shop in Alaska when I was stationed in that part of the world, and they brighten up my otherwise bare, barn-wood paneled walls. Those pictures are about it as souvenirs go, at least for the kind of souvenirs you can display on a wall or table top.

I've got some other souvenirs I can't display. You see, once upon a time, I had a special girl friend named Stephanie. I loved her more than I've ever loved anyone else. For a long time, I kept her picture on my table, but every time I saw it I was reminded of how she was tortured and raped and killed in Turkey by some sadistic creep who claimed she was an American spy, so now I keep her picture in my footlocker. She's out of sight but still in my heart.

It was Stephanie's friendship with me that brought about her arrest and torture, but her ordeal did not go unpunished. After I discovered what happened, it didn't take me long to track down the bastard, an official in the Turkish Secret Police, no less, who ordered her arrest and torture.

I quickly discovered that Stephanie wasn't the only innocent woman he'd had arrested and tortured. He boasted that the law was on his side and that nobody could touch him, but I proved him dead wrong. I took him for a friendly ride out into the countryside one dark night and showed him what serious hurt is like when you're on the receiving end. That's when I broke his arms and legs, crushed his testicles, wired a chunk of concrete around his scrawny neck, dropped him head first into an abandoned well, and heaved some rubble in on top of him. To my knowledge, what's left of him is still in that well yet today. I hope the bastard hurt for a long, long time before he died, just like Stephanie did.

It's eerie how little it takes to bring Stephanie's memory back to me. Tonight, it was the soft fragrance of Sandy's perfume, the same fragrance that Stephanie used to wear. Then, too, Stephanie was a lot like Sandy in the way she moved and talked and in the softness of her face. If I was ten or fifteen years younger, I could really go for a sweet girl like Sandy--if I could ever get Stephanie out of my dreams.

My room is at the back of the tavern building, and my windows overlook the alley. Maybe that's not so good in some ways. So far, though, it's never been a problem. There's an outside stairway leading up to my room, as well as an inside stairway. That way, I can go up to the second floor and to my room either from inside the tavern or directly from the alley. I like that arrangement, like to keep my options open.

I keep my Harley-Davidson in a partially enclosed space under my back stairway. It's well protected from the weather, and I don't worry much about its being stolen from back there.

I've always enjoyed riding a motorcycle. Sometimes when I need something to cheer me up, I daydream about hitting the road for a long, long ride. The down side of that idea is that riding my Harley always brings back memories of a happier time when Stephanie and I used to ride together, and the hellish memories always follow.

At one side of our building, just around the corner from where my outside stairway begins, there's a small parking area just big enough for three vehicles. That's where I keep my Buick and where Al parks his Cadillac when he comes to work. The other space we try to reserve for special guests. This parking arrangement helps free up the small parking lot out front for our patrons.

You might be wondering about the other rooms on the second floor of the tavern building. We use one of them for storage. The two others that we call our "guest rooms" are each furnished with a double bed and a dresser. They share an adjoining bathroom, the small one the original Al used, spruced up quite a bit. Although we don't advertise the fact that the rooms are available, we've rented them a few times--for an hour, or a night, whatever people want. We'll probably rent them even more in the future as people become aware of them. Our cleaning service takes care of our guest rooms, and those rooms are as neat and clean as you'll find in many hotels and a whole lot more private.

You might think that sleeping above the tavern where I work would be difficult for all sorts of reasons, but I sleep well most every night. Last night was no different. This morning found me awake and rested at six o'clock, just seconds before my alarm clock could start screeching at me.

I get up early because I work mornings as a roustabout for a transport company. There are several things I really like about the job. First, it's hard, physcial work, and that keeps me in shape. Since I took that job, I almost never have to work out in a gym to keep my muscles toned. The pay is good, too, and that combined with the income from part ownership in Al's Tavern provides for everything I need--and then some.

After a quick shower, I dressed and walked two blocks to the little restaurant where I eat breakfast before going to work at the transport company. It's a small but a nice place to eat, and I like the two girls who run things there in the mornings. As soon as I walked in that morning, though, I knew something was very, very wrong: Marie was behind the counter instead of Janice, my usual waitress.

Marie didn't smile like she usually does when she saw me either. She just motioned with her finger for me to follow her behind the counter and into the kitchen.

Janice was there in the kitchen. She was slumped into a chair, holding a dish cloth filled with ice to her face, and she was a mess. When she moved the makeshift ice pack, I could see her left eye was black and her face was bruised all over. From the way she was moving, I knew there were a lot more bruises hidden under her clothing.

"Who did this to you, Janice?" I asked.

"Bryce. He . . . He was drunk when I came home and . . . and . . . he beat me up again. Wanted money that I didn't have to give him and . . . and . . . ," she whimpered.

"Janice, you've got to get out of that mess."

"I . . . I know it. But . . . I don't know how! He . . . He . . . Bryce said he'd kill me if I tried to throw him out. It . . . It is my place where we're living, you know.

"Janice, if you want out, I'll get you out. Today. And you won't have to worry about Bryce anymore. Not ever again!" I'd told her that before when Bryce had hurt her, but she'd hadn't been ready to hear it. This time she was ready.

"Okay," she gulped. "I want Bryce outta my apartment and outta my life--now."

"How does Bryce spend his days now? Is he working? Drinking?"

"He hasn't worked for over a month. They fired him 'cause he was drunk on the job. Two weeks ago, they repossessed his car 'cause he didn't make the payments. It made him mad that I wouldn't pay it off for him. Now all he does is sit around and drink."

She swallowed a few sobs before going on: "He starts out drinking as soon as he's out of bed in the morning, drinks 'till he's falling-down drunk, and stays drunk like that all day. The S.O.B. even sold my VCR and pawned one of my rings to buy booze! Booze, booze, and more booze, that's all the wants!" The words kept coming out, but their meaning was all the same.

"So if he moved out today, you wouldn't care anything about it? Wouldn't need to know where he went or anything?"

Janice shook her head. "All I'd know is that he wasn't there when I got home from work. That would be heavenly." She was almost smiling.

I got on the phone to Ken Maier and explained the situation. He said he'd take care of things, but he might need Janice's key to her apartment. Said that he'd be by within thirty minutes to pick it up.

I reassured Janice that everything was going to be okay. If the neighbors saw anything at all, they'd just see her boyfriend leaving in a taxi--no big deal. I told her I'd call her after I'd heard from Ken later in the day, and that I'd ask Ernie to take her home after work that afternoon. He'd make sure she found things okay at home. I didn't mention that Ernie and Ken had plenty of experience doing just that for women just like her who needed some "help" with men who thought they could push them around any way they wanted and no one would do anything about it.

If there's one classification of human beings that Ken really hates, it's guys who beat up on their girlfriends or wives. His reason for that hatred is partly personal. His sister was killed by her husband a few weeks after Ken got back to the states from 'Nam, and he's never forgotten it or forgiven himself for not somehow preventing it. Back then, the police and the courts didn't pay much attention to such abuse. Some of the authorities still don't pay much attention to it. In Ken's sister's case, her death was made out to have been an accident. Ken knew better. He exacted his own brand of justice on his sister's killer then, and he'd exact that same kind of justice on Janice's tormenter today.

I turned to go back to the counter for my breakfast, but Janice clutched my arm, still whimpering. "It was my grandmother's ring he took. She . . . She raised me, you know."

"Yes, I know she did." With the hell Janice went through growing up as an orphan, being bounced around from one abusive foster family to another until her grandmother finally took her in, she sure didn't need a boyfriend beating her up and stealing her things.

"It was all I had left to remember her by."

Janice dropped her head to my chest and started to cry. I put a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe we can get the ring back. Do you have the pawn ticket?"

"Oh, yes. I found it in a wastebasket. That's how I knew Bryce pawned it. When I confronted him with the fact that he'd stolen my ring, he just snarled and said I could go get it if I really wanted 'that piece of junk' back. Just a minute, I'll find that ticket." Janice rummaged through her purse until she found the pawn ticket, then handed it to me, and added, "But I . . . I can't redeem it. I don't have the money."

The ticket was marked to indicate the ring would be taken out of pawn the next day. If the pawnbroker was honest, he should still have the ring, but Janice would need well over $100 to redeem it.

It was too early to call the pawnshop to see if they still had the ring, so I told Janice to do that as soon as she thought they'd be open. I told her to find out what she would owe on it, and tell the broker that she'd be by later in the day to get it out of pawn.

Janice didn't want to take the six twenties I offered but I insisted. "Ernie will take you by the pawnshop on the way home. If you need more cash, tell him it'll be a favor to me if he loans it to you and that I'll reimburse him." She threw her arms around me in a big bear hug and said she would.

Marie fixed my steak-and-eggs breakfast and poured several mugs of hot coffee for me while we waited for Ken. When he pulled up in front, I went out and gave him Janice's key. I finished my breakfast, and when the next bus came along, I left for work.

Ken called me mid-morning. He came by a little later and gave me back Janice's key so I could return it to her when I went back to the restaurant for lunch. He said everything was taken care of, no trouble. Ken's a man of few words. Enough said.

That afternoon I got down to the serious business of finding out what happened to Floyd. First, I picked up the newspaper that carried a brief account of his murder from Joe at his newsstand. Sandy was right. The newspaper account gave almost no information that would help me except to tell me where his body had been found--in an alley down in the warehouse district.

I wanted to talk to Joe about Floyd, but first I wanted to talk to Floyd's former employer, George Saunders. I told Joe I'd be back and took the bus to George's store.

George owns the sporting goods store known as "The Hit and Run." (George Saunders, so I've been told, used to be a pretty well-known and liked, semi-pro baseball player.) Floyd worked there for George until very recently.

I've known George for years. In fact, I can remember when his store was little more than a garage at his parents' home filled with military surplus camping goods. His business managed to thrive, however, probably due to his good management, and is now located in a nearly new building at the back of a nearby shopping mall.

After a brief exchange of greetings, George showed me into his office. I asked him to tell me whatever he could about Floyd.

"I really liked Floyd," he began. "He was with me almost five years, and he was one of my best employees. In fact, I trusted him to lock up the store a number of times when I had to be away for some reason or another. That shows how much I trusted him," George began.

"Why did Floyd leave you?"

"Floyd was restless sometimes. Bored. I could see it coming. See, sometimes we're real busy, and we have lots of floor traffic. That's when Floyd shined. He loved showing the goods, talking to people about their needs and wants, hearing their stories, selling things. But, some days things are slow." George shrugged his shoulders. "That's the way our business is and, well, Floyd was restless and bored when he didn't have customers."

"Did Floyd's behavior change while you knew him? Especially in the last few weeks?"

"Like what? Or how?"

"Did he seem especially tired? Start coming in late? Or drunk? Ask to leave early? Let his appearance go to hell?"

"No, nothing like any of those things. Floyd was as good a salesman the day he quit as he ever was."

"No drinking problems? Drugs?"

"No, not that I know of. Besides, I don't tolerate any of my employees using drugs or drinking on the job. If I find out anything like that, they're outta here fast. I never had a worry about Floyd, though, in that regard."

I nodded my understanding. "Did Floyd take much time off from work, especially lately?"

"Some. He'd take a day or two here and there."

"Was he sick?"

"No. At least, I don't think so. He'd tell me a few days in advance that he had some business to attend to on such and such a day and ask to take the day off. I almost never said no."

"Business? What kind of business did Floyd have to take time off for?"

"I don't know. 'Business' is what he called it. He never explained, except he sometimes talked about going into business for himself. I never took him very seriously when he said that. Maybe I should have. But like I said, he was a good employee, and I never knew him to get involved with drugs or alcohol."

Again, I nodded my understanding, then changed the subject. "Did you ever meet Floyd's sister, Sandy?"

"Sure did. Twice. See, as part of my benefit package, I offer my employees a life insurance policy after they've been with me for six months. Floyd named his sister as beneficiary, and I asked him to have her come in and sign a signature card. I could have sent it to her and asked her to mail it back, but I like to meet the people I may have to deal with in the future. Anyway, she came in to sign the card."

George paused a moment, thinking, then continued. "You know, from the way Floyd talked abut her, I think he really liked his sister. I think she was his only living relative, too. At least, his only close relative. By the way, the insurance will pay off for her. It was the kind of policy that Floyd could keep after he left here if he wanted to make the payments himself, and he did."

"You said you met Sandy twice?"

"Yes. I liked her right off and thought she might like to work for me." He paused, then continued. "See, the sporting goods business used to be a man's business. Years ago, we didn't see many women buying outdoor gear. That's all changed. Now, we're a family-oriented business. Mom, dad, and the kids come in to buy tents, sleeping bags, camping gear, fishing equipment, the works. Quite a few women come in by themselves, too. I thought Floyd's sister might work in just fine as a salesperson, so I asked her to come in and talk about that possibility. Told her I'd train her and everything."

"Did she seem interested?"

"No. Not really. Said she was much too shy to make a good sporting goods salesperson. Wasn't the outdoor type, either. To be honest, I think she really likes her present employment too much to want to change jobs, but I still wish she'd give it a try. I think she'd be good. If she could overcome some of her shyness, she'd be exceptional. And honest, I believe. It's really hard to find honest employees these days."

"Did Floyd say what he planned to do when he left you?"

"That's the funny thing. He hinted at things but never came right out and talked about his plans. He hinted that he might work for the police, but he never would tell me exactly what he was going to do except to say he wasn't going to join the police force. Other times, like I said, he hinted that he might go into business for himself. So, no, he really didn't every come right out and say what he was going to do."

"Do you know anyone who had any reason to kill Floyd?"

"No. He got along just fine with everyone who worked here, and I don't believe he ever had any problems with a customer. Of course, I really don't know who he associated with after hours."

I thanked George. He'd confirmed several things for me. Floyd was basically still the honest guy I had known in the service, and he wasn't doing drugs.

As I stood up and turned to leave, George motioned for me to wait a minute. "You used to be a policeman in the service, didn't you?"

I nodded. "Military Police."

George nodded in return. "Now you're going after Floyd's killer, aren't you?"

I nodded again. "He was my friend. I don't think he's getting a fair shake by the police. By the way, have the police been here to talk with you about Floyd?"

George shook his head. "I thought they would be by now but they haven't. Not even a phone call."

"I was afraid of that. They don't seem to be pushing an investigation into what happened to him."

Well, I'd push that investigation--and I'd push hard. George extended his hand and wished me luck.
Chapter 4

Ernie picked me up after I finished talking with George Saunders and drove me to Joe's newsstand. He said that he had taken Janice home by way of the pawnshop just as we planned. He went in and got her grandmother's ring for her, and he let me know that the cash I'd given her had covered it. Everything at her apartment looked okay to him, and he said that he would pick her up the following morning to drive her to work. I asked Ernie if he'd like to come in and visit with Joe and me about Floyd, then drive me back to the tavern. He said he would.

The building that houses Joe's newsstand is divided into thirds. The front part is the actual newsstand where he displays his magazines and newspapers, plus a few related items. His office is directly back and to one side of the display area. Across from his office is a room where he keeps supplies. Next comes what I call Joe's "back room," a small room that I sometimes use if I want to talk to somebody or work on a project in private.

When Joe got the building, that back room contained a huge, old-fashioned safe. Shaped like a monster cube, it measures about six feet on each side. The door to that safe was standing wide open when Joe got it, and the combination lock didn't work. Not to worry, though, because our friend Ken is extremely skilled at working with locks, a skill he learned in the service. Locks hold no secrets for Ken, and he fixed the lock on that safe so that Joe could use it for his business safe. Sometimes I keep things in Joe's safe myself because it's the most secure place I know of short of a bank. Maybe it's even safer than a bank vault!

Joe lives in a small apartment on the second floor of his building. He's got an elevator that lifts him in his wheelchair from the first to the second floor. You might think that a man with only one arm wouldn't be able to take care of himself very well. In Joe's case, you'd be wrong. Joe has had his apartment remodeled to accommodate his multiple handicaps, and he takes considerable pride in managing by himself.

A fellow who clerks for Joe met us at the front door of the newsstand and said that Joe was on the phone but would be with us in a minute. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Joe rolled out of his office in his motorized wheelchair, motioned us into his office, asked his clerk to hold any phone calls for him, and pushed the door shut.

"What are you learning about Floyd, Big Guy?" he asked.

I summarized what I'd learned so far and asked him what he knew about Floyd and what Floyd had done since leaving his job with George Saunders.

"A lot of vets come by here to talk as well as to buy magazines or papers," he began. "You guys already know that, right?"

Both Ernie and I indicated that we did.

"Well, I've been asking questions about Floyd, and it seems that there are two stories floating around. You'll have to determine if there's any truth to either one," he commented.

Ernie and I waited to hear what he would say.

"One story is that Floyd was working with or was going to work with the police on some sort of a sting operation. Some versions of that story say there were two officers involved with Floyd, others say just one. From what you told me, you've already heard that story. The other story is that Floyd got real friendly with a man named Jack Burger. That he had worked for Burger on occasion in the past, and he was going to work for him full time once he quit his regular job. Have you heard that story?"

"No."

"Have you guys heard of Jack Burger?"

"Just the name. Who is he?"

"Jack Burger's a vet, too. He owns or at least manages some sort of an import-export business under his own name. The name is straightforward, something like 'Jack Burger Imports.' He operates out of a big, old, semi-dilapidated warehouse down in the part of town everybody calls the tenderloin. There isn't much in that part of town anymore except warehouses, crappy bars, and seedy hotels. And crime. Lotsa crime. You know where I mean?"

Joe looked at me hard. "Knowin' you, Big Guy, you're goin' to go have a talk with Jack Burger, so I gotta tell you that when you do, you wantta watch your back. See, there's a lot of stories goin' 'round about Burger. Everybody says he's a quick-tempered bastard. If he likes you, he's just fine. If he doesn't, he'll have his boy beat you up just for the fun of it."

"His boy?"

"Tough guy they call Winston. Don't know if that's his first name or his last. Maybe it isn't either. I do know that he likes to beat up on people for the sport of it. That's all I know."

"Okay, I hear you. Now, what about Burger's business? Is it legit?"

"I was gettin' to that. Some say it is. Others say it's a cover or a front for something that isn't. Nobody I know who thinks that way seems to know what it's a cover for, but Jack Burger does have connections with Mike Fletcher. They're close. Ya gotta remember that connection when you mess around with Burger."

"Mike Fletcher, big-time crime?"

"Rumored to be, anyway." Joe smiled.

"Is Fletcher the one who lives in the mansion over by the golf course?"

"The same. Fancy estate. He does business out of an office in Burger's warehouse, though. Rumors are that he launders money, imports drugs, all the kinds of things that make lots of money illegally. For all I know, though, they're just rumors."

I thanked Joe, and the three of us talked about his plans for expanding his business. His newsstand business has been good enough he's been thinking about buying the building next to his in order to have room to expand, probably into a sideline business. That building is coming up for sale before long, and he wanted to get Ernie's and my reaction to his plans.

It was too late for me to pay Jack Burger a visit that afternoon and still get back to the tavern on time, so Ernie and I went with Joe to look over the building he had in mind. It currently houses a flower shop, but the owner-operator is a lady now in her 80s who wants to retire.

All things considered, the building appeared to be in good repair, and its acquisition would give Joe about twice as much space as he now has. Furthermore, it already has wheelchair ramps at the entrance and to an elevated office in the rear. That's important not only to Joe, who's confined to a wheel-chair, but to a number of guys who patronize the newsstand. I told Joe that if he wanted it, I thought he should go for it, that Al and I would back him.

Ernie drove me back to Al's Tavern. I could tell from the way he drove and didn't say anything that he was thinking about something important. When he turned to me, I was ready to listen. "If you're goin' to be dealing with guys like Jack Burger, we're gonna need some serious communications gear so I can back you up," he began.

"Whatcha got in mind?"

"You got another pair of boots like those you're wearin'?"

I assured him that I did. "Let me have 'em when I drop you off at Al's. I'll take 'em over to Jason tonight. See what he can do about installing a transmitter in them and fixing me up with hearing. Follow me?"

I sure did. Jason Allbright is a vet who worked in Navy intelligence for years. He now consults with several corporations and sometimes the police on surveillance operations. If anyone we knew could fix up the kind of communications Ernie had in mind for us, Jason could.

Ernie drove me to my backdoor stairway, and I brought him my second pair of boots from my room. Before he drove off, I thanked him again for taking care of both Sandy and Janice. "Sandy told me she really likes you. I wanted you to know that," I told him as he shifted his cab into gear.

For a couple of moments, Ernie didn't say anything. "Thanks, Mel. Meetin' a girl like her makes me wish I was ten years younger," he replied, his eyes as soft as I've ever seen them.

"Like I said, she really likes you, Ernie."

"That's very nice to know, but . . . ," Ernie began, then paused. Finally he blurted out just what I knew he was thinking: "But what neat girl like her would wantta be friends with an ole beatup warhorse like me?"

I looked at Ernie, measuring what he'd said before I replied. Hell, I knew what he was thinking because I'd thought the same thing about girls in the past. "Ernie, your age and your past don't mean much to a girl who really likes you," I told him, "not to a girl who wants to be your friend. Ya gotta remember that. Besides, you're not all that much older than she is."

"Whatdaya mean, Mel?"

"When a girl likes you, Ernie, she may not care so much how old you are, or what color you are, or what you've done, or what you look like. Sandy's very shy, though, and my guess is you shouldn't wait for her to call you. Instead, you otta call her first. And," I added, "from what I've seen of her, if you like her at all, you'd be a real chump not to call her."

Ernie looked at me for a long moment, thinking about what I'd said. Then he was gone.

Al saw me come into the tavern and waved me over in a manner that let me know there was something urgent. "You got two phone calls, maybe important, maybe not," he said.

I listened.

"First, Paul Gallagher called for you. He said he didn't know if it meant anything to what you were looking into, but the police station had been infiltrated\--that's his word, infiltrated\--with federal lawmen of one kind or another, and they were in conference with Sam Bloomington. Said that Bloomington isn't working many cases now so you'd make the connection. Said he, Gallagher, that is, wouldn't be in tonight, but he'll get back to you if he learns anything else."

"Okay."

"Second, George Saunders called. Said that not long after you left his store, he had a visit from two cops, a local cop named Sam Bloomington and a federal cop of some sort. FBI-type, maybe. That level, anyway. Said the federal cop was very evasive about who he was and let Bloomington do all the talking. Bloomington asked him a few questions about Floyd and then, as they were leaving, asked if anyone else had been around inquiring about Floyd. George wanted you to know that he had been honest with them and said you'd talked to him about Floyd. Said he'd tried to make out that yours was just a friendly visit, though, and that he hadn't said anything to the cops about you looking for Floyd's killer. Said he thought you ought to know."
Chapter 5

Jack Burger's import business wasn't listed in the telephone book so I didn't have an address for him. Joe had said it was in a warehouse in the tenderloin district, though, and I figured I could find it without knowing the specific address. Still, it puzzled me that the business wasn't listed.

The following day, Ernie picked me up after I got off work and had lunch. He didn't know where Burger's business was located either and suggested that I call Joe at the newsstand. Save us some time looking for it.

Joe said he'd make some calls. Ten minutes later, he called with a general description of the location. "Jack Burger Imports, as he calls his business, is located four buildings down the street from The Rhino," Joe reported, "and his door has a small painted sign that reads 'Jack Burger Imports.' You know where The Rhino is, Mel?"

"Yup." I knew, all right. The Rhino is a bar with a bad reputation that's been in the news a lot lately.

"I'm told that Burger's telephone number is unlisted," Joe added.

Ernie had my boots with him. Told me to put them on while he drove us over to Burger's warehouse. Then he told me what Jason Allbright had done for us.

"There's a transmitter in the heel of your left boot," he began.

I looked over the boot before putting it on but couldn't seen anything different about it. Jason does good work.

"I've got what looks like a tiny hearing aid," Ernie continued. He showed me the device. "It picks up everything your transmitter broadcasts. I've also got an audio recorder set up to record everything your transmitter broadcasts, too. It's under the back seat. Okay?"

"Okay. Now some questions. What if somebody's set up to detect bugs like the one in my heel?"

"Glad you asked. Two things: First, Jason says this transmitter is hard for all but the latest debugging equipment to detect. Broadcasts on a frequency that the older equipment won't pick up. Second, you can turn the transmitter off if you need to."

"How do I do that?"

"There's a position switch built into the transmitter. If you tilt your boot, like if you cross your leg and make the heel vertical, the transmitter will shut off. Actually, if you just tilt your boot over about 30 degrees, like against a wall or a chair rung, the transmitter will shut off. Won't broadcast a thing.

"Say, you're standin' with your back to a wall," Ernie continued. "You can casually prop your boot heel up against the wall to turn off the transmitter. Or you could prop your heel up against a chair rung to shut it off. Put your foot back down on the floor and you're back in business. Tricky, huh?"

"Ingenious!"

We were about halfway to Burger's place of business when I sensed Ernie tense up just a little. A few moments later, he turned to me. "We've got a tail, Mel," he informed me. He watched the rearview mirror carefully for several blocks, then turned back to me. "It's probably a professional tailing us. Whoever it is, they're keeping their distance, but they've been back there way too long. Tell you what. I'll let you out, and then I'll circle, try to get a description of the car and a license number if I can."

"Okay. Let's see if we can find out who it is. Check with Paul if you can get a license number."

"I'll do that. I may call Ken, too. Jason fixed the two of us up with secure two-way communications a long time ago. Don't worry, Mel," Ernie added, "I won't be far away if you run into trouble, and either Ken or I'll be waiting nearby when you're ready to leave."

Ernie cruised slowly down the street until we spotted what we thought should be Burger's warehouse. I got out half a block away and walked to the entrance, hoping to give Ernie time to circle back on the tail.

Joe had described this part of town as the tenderloin district, meaning it was a center for prostitution and other criminal activities. I looked around at the dilapidated, dingy buildings covered with graffiti. Most of the buildings had heavy steel bars, most of them showing signs of rust and neglect, on the windows and doors. Helluva place to work, but maybe cheap to rent. There were mostly warehouses along the street, but I also saw the disreputable-looking bar called The Rhino across and down the street and what was probably a sleazy hotel farther on down.

I've forgotten its name, but the hotel down the street has been in the news lately because of some Vice Squad raids on the prostitutes who work the area. The girls pick up guys on the street or at The Rhino and take 'em to that hotel--or so the Vice Squad says. Both The Rhino and the hotel have been featured on the television news, but I can't remember the hotel's name.

There it was: "JACK BURGER IMPORTS." The small sign identifying Burger's business was painted on the tiny window glass of a heavy steel door on the front of the building. I assumed the door led to Burger's office. I tried the doorknob and, to my surprise, the door was unlocked. I pushed it open, looked around, and stepped inside.

A man wearing a dirty, black t-shirt with the sleeves ripped out was seated behind a short counter. He stopped whatever he was doing and stood up when I came in. Big, ugly, and tough looking with gaudy tattoos of naked women on both arms. Probably one of Burger's "boys" as Joe had called them. "Who the hell are you?" he growled.

"I'd like to talk with Mr. Burger."

"Got an appointment?"

"No."

He came around the end of the counter and faced me, his eyes hard and menacing, overhanging brows knitted together in a frown. "Then get lost, asshole."

"I said I'd like to talk with Mr. Burger. That's why I'm here."

"I don't care what you said. Get lost, asshole."

"You gotta learn some manners," I said. I moved sideways so that my back wasn't to the door. "Besides, I don't take orders from asses."

The guy looked at me in disbelief, like nobody had ever talked back to him like that before. I could see the redness of anger color his face as he lost his temper. Then the bozo suddenly swung his heavy frame around the end of the counter, lunged directly at me, face now red with rage, throwing a straight right at my head.

It was exactly what I expected him to do, and I was ready. As he lunged at me, I stepped back and pivoted to the side at a forty-five degree angle, then drove a powerful side kick into his midsection as he charged. It's an old street fighter's move, a punishing blow that sent the charging brute back against the counter with explosive force.

A quick glance over my shoulder told me that nobody was coming in the door behind me. As the guy rebounded from the counter, I moved in and hit him twice in the face and again on his jaw. He crashed back hard against the counter and then folded up on the floor, blood running from his nose, one eye already swelling shut and the other turning an angry purple-red.

I backed away and scanned the room, keeping a watchful eye on my fallen foe. He moaned a couple of times and that was that. When I heard running footsteps somewhere in the building, I dropped into a side stance, ready to take on anyone who was coming to his aid.

The door behind the counter flew open. I'd expected another goon, maybe a twin to the one on the floor, to come charging through the door, but it was just a scrawny kid. Right behind him came an older man wearing jeans and sneakers and a clean, white t-shirt.

Both men surveyed the wreck on the floor. The kid glanced nervously from me to the man in the white t-shirt: "Ya want me to . . . ."

"No. You take care of Winston here."

As the kid proceeded to drag the wreck away, the older man turned to me. "I'm Jack Burger. You want to see me?"

"That's why I'm here."

"Okay. Come on in." He waved me to follow him.

I trailed behind him through the door, keeping watch over my shoulder and to either side as I did so. His office was located in a corner of the old warehouse, directly behind the door. There was a huge desk containing three telephones. A fax machine sat on a table against one wall, and four huge filing cabinets lined the other wall. A photocopy machine occupied another wall. Several heavy wooden chairs were pushed up around the desk. What really got my attention, though, was Burger's safe. About as big as Joe's, it dominated the office.

Instead of taking a seat in the plush chair behind his desk, Burger left me standing while he sat on the corner of his desk, all the time eyeing me with cold, opaque, black eyes.

"Nobody's ever knocked out Winston before. Almost wish I'd seen the show. Hell, mate, don't take it personal. He was just doing his job."

"Is it always this hard to get to see you?"

Burger ignored my question. "You said you wanted to see me. Well, here I am. Now, who are you, and whatdaya want?"

"My name's Mel Wakefield. Floyd Duboise was a friend of mine."

"So?"

"That's it? So?"

"Hey, pal. Floyd Duboise was nothin' to me but a junkie. Nothin' but a junkie. Like a million more junkies in this town. He lost his job, let all his friends down, couldn't even pay his debts, . . . . He was nothin' but a piece of shit."

"It seems strange to hear you talk that way about him. I heard that you were his good friend. Thought maybe you could shed some light on what happened to him."

"His good friend? You heard that I was his good friend?" Burger chuckled, scratched his head and eyed me. There was the hint of a grin on his lips but his eyes were still icy cold.

"That's what I heard."

"Let's say maybe I was the only friend he had. I dunno. He came to me a few weeks ago and told me he was about to lose his job. Said he owed a lot of money. Asked me if I'd give him a job. No, I should say he begged me to give him a job. God, he was pathetic." Burger paused, looking at me to see if I was buying the crap he was shoveling.

When I didn't respond, Burger continued, "Well, what the hell? I didn't need any help, but he was a vet. So, against my better judgement, I gave the sorry slob a job."

"Doin' what?"

"That's none of your damned business, Wakefield, but I'll tell you anyway. I let him sweep out the warehouse at night after we finished the day's work. That was about all he was good for, cleanin' up the place. I told him he could keep doin' that as long as he did it right."

"Was he working for you the day he got killed?"

"Nope. He spent just one day working for me. One or two, maybe. I forget exactly. Then he showed up drunk. Couldn't hardly stand up. Maybe he was on drugs, I don't know. I told him he was fired, that I didn't want drunks or junkies working for me. Never saw him again. Never wanted to, neither."

"You said he was hurting for money. Did he say why?"

"That's what he said, and that's all he said, he was hurting for money. I didn't much care why. I didn't ask him about it, and he didn't say why. Ya gotta realize, Wakefield, that Duboise was a total loser. Maybe he was an unlucky gambler. Maybe he owed some drug dealer big time. Don't know, don't care. Owing a drug dealer'll get ya dead faster'n shit."

I looked at Burger. He looked back with his cold, dark eyes. "I got work to do, pal." He straightened up.

Ernie's cab was parked across the street when I left Burger's office. He saw me come out, drove to the corner, made a U-turn, and picked me up.

"How'd the transmitter work?" I asked.

Ernie chuckled. "Like a charm. I heard everything that went on in there between you and Burger. Heard you kickin' the shit out of his bodyguard, too.

"Did you make our tail?"

Ernie scowled. "Yeah. Couple of guys, or maybe the smaller one was a girl, wearing gray jackets and driving a dark blue Chevy. They watched you go into Burger's place, then drove off."

"Get the license?"

Ernie was grinning now. "Sure did. Didn't call Paul, though, 'cause I figure he's workin' and his calls may be monitored or recorded. Called Ken instead. He's got a friend who checked it out for us. Big Guy, we're playing with the big-time on this one!"

I couldn't help but grin at the way he said that. "Big-time, huh? Who we playin' with, Ernie?"

"Ken said that's a Justice Department car. Hear that, man, a gen-u-ine U-nited States Justice Department car."

Ernie drove me back to Al's Tavern and came in for a beer. Soon as Al saw us, he came over. He had a big grin on his face. "Ya had a call from Paul Gallagher just a few minutes ago, Big Guy. He said to tell ya to back off on that project you're workin' on. Said he'd overheard talk about how you--and they called you by name--are gettin' in the way of a big-time federal investigation."

I looked over at Edie. He was grinning from ear to ear. "I love it, Big Guy!" he said, "Who we gonna annoy tomorrow?"
Chapter 6

Janice was looking a lot better the next morning when I ate breakfast. Her eye was purple-black and swollen, but the bruises on her face were a little less colorful, and she was able to move well enough to be working the counter while Marie worked in the kitchen. She even was able to joke a little about her appearance as she brought my usual steak and eggs and coffee. Before I left, she thanked me again for helping her get her grandmother's ring back and showed me how she now was wearing it on a chain around her neck. "I'll pay you back," she promised, "just as soon as I can." I told her there was no hurry.

Steak and eggs. And coffee, of course. Sometimes a pancake or two on the side with plenty of maple syrup. That's what gets my mornings started off right. I was feeling pretty good, too, ready to try to locate some of Floyd's friends that afternoon when I stepped out of the restaurant--and saw her.

The strawberry blonde, wearing a white blouse, gray blazer, and slacks, was leaning up against a dark blue Chevrolet, her hands folded in front of her in plain view, watching the door of the restaurant. Watching me. Nobody else was in the car. I checked the street both ways. There didn't seem to be any other dark blue Chevrolets or guys in gray suits.

I was three steps toward the bus stop where I catch the bus to my morning job when she called to me, "Mr. Wakefield."

"Yes?"

"I need to talk with you."

"What about?"

"Fred Duboise."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Dana Brewster, United States Customs."

"You carry some ID?"

"Yep." The girl opened her purse and produced a badge and her photo ID.

"Okay. You wantta talk to me. So talk."

"Let's talk in the car. Get in. I'll drive you to work." I didn't have to ask how she knew where I work.

We got in the car. As I settled into the passenger seat, I caught the blonde looking me over--a mischievous smile flittering across her face as she did so. She quickly got serious all over again, though, started the car, began driving.

"Mr. Wakefield, . . . ." She hesitated, and it dawned on me that this conversation most likely was being recorded.

"Yes?"

"You've been asking a lot of questions about Floyd Duboise lately. In doing so, you've involved yourself in an investigation that is much greater in scope than you realize. If you continue, you could disrupt this investigation, and I'm sure you don't want to do that. Am I making myself clear?" She paused, obviously expecting a response.

"Now isn't this something odd, Miss Brewster?" I retorted, "Just two days ago, I heard that Floyd's death wasn't much to get excited about, sort of a one-junkie-kills-another kind of thing, and who cares anyway because junkies are a dime a dozen. Now, you're telling me that it's a big deal."

"Mr. Wakefield. I'm asking you, no, I'm telling you to leave Floyd Duboise's death alone. If you disrupt this ongoing federal investigation, we'll find a nice little prison cell for you to occupy for a long, long time. That is, if you're still alive. Not that we'd do you any physical harm, of course. Understand?"

"I hear what you're saying."

"Leave the detective work to the police. We're going to get the guy who killed Floyd Duboise."

I didn't respond, but I doubted that finding Floyd's killer or killers was much higher on Custom's list of priorities than it was on the local cops'.

"The war's over. Duboise's dead. Let it alone, Mr. Wakefield."

I had to say it: "No, you're wrong there, Miss Brewster. The war's never over. Not this war, anyway."

Miss Brewster parked in front of the warehouse where I work. She got out when I did, and we looked at each other across the car. Her big blue eyes softened for an instant as they scanned my shaved head and bearded face. That mischievous grin I'd seen earlier flittered briefly across her face once again.

I looked at her hands. She wasn't wearing any rings at all except for a little turquoise stone on a pinkie finger. I couldn't be sure without getting closer--much closer, but I thought it matched the little stones on her earlobes.

Maybe I was misreading her but, hell, it was worth a chance. I looked up and down the street and didn't see anyone watching us. Placing my finger in front of my lips in a symbol of silence, I motioned for her to walk down the sidewalk with me. I wasn't too surprised when she did so.

"Tape recorder off now?" I asked.

She smiled sheepishly, then confirmed that it was.

"May I call you 'Dana,' now, then?"

There was that mischievous grin again. "If I can call you 'Mel.'"

"It's a deal."

Dana's blue eyes softened once more. She was smiling now. "Deal."

"You know where I work at night? Al's Tavern?" I figured that if she knew where I worked during the mornings, she probably knew where I worked at night. I told her the address anyway.

She knew where I worked evenings, and had been there once "on business," she volunteered. Interesting.

"Why don't you drop by this evening, Dana. I'll buy you a drink, maybe even buy you one of our extra delicious sandwiches if you're nice to me. You can get outta uniform, let down your hair, relax a little, have some fun. Forget about this super-investigation for awhile."

Her blue eyes sparkled. "Do you try to pick up every . . . ." She hesitated.

"No, not every girl. Only the very pretty ones."

Dana giggled then, giggled again, blushed, and tossed her head as she turned back toward her car. Then she looked back over her shoulder. "Maybe I will, Mel," she called, "maybe I will." It certainly was one of the more enjoyable encounters I've had with the law.

That afternoon, I went looking for anyone who might have been at all friendly with Floyd Duboise. I started by checking several of the bars where vets gather and asking a lot of questions. Mostly I got blank looks and the question "Who's he?" when I mentioned Floyd's name. Oh, some of the guys knew him. Some had seen or heard the news about his death. None of them seemed to know much about him.

Finally, I came across a guy who said he'd played pool with Floyd just a few weeks ago at a bar called The Four Aces out on Thirty-fifth Avenue. He said he'd seen Floyd and a guy called "Tex" drinking beer there on several different occasions.

In a neighborhood of dumps, The Four Aces was a real dump. Half a dozen big cycles, mostly Harleys, were parked out front. Inside, an equal number of sleazy bikers were whooping it up, drinking beer, trying to put the make on the two scantily dressed waitresses, who seemed to be enjoying, even encouraging, the raucous attention.

I bypassed the bikers and headed toward the back of the bar where two or three older guys were playing pool. When I said I was looking for a fellow called Tex, one of the pool players, without looking up from the table, muttered, "I'm Tex. Who the hell are you?" Tex might have been a husky man once. Now, he was a scrawny man with little hair left on his head, sunken eyes, and a washed out, pasty complexion.

"Mel Wakefield, a friend of Floyd Duboise. Can I talk to you? Buy you a beer?" I held out my hand.

"Okay." He slapped my hand and pointed toward a table.

I learned that Tex was a chopper pilot in the service. He'd volunteered to fly some of the most dangerous missions in a dirty little activity in Asia that nobody here ever heard about. His assignment consisted of flying CIA advisers around at night, and that's all he'd say--except to say it was hell. Maybe the booze that now was consuming him helped him forget what he'd seen on some of those nightly missions.

We talked about Floyd, but Tex couldn't tell me much I didn't already know. Like me, Tex had never known Floyd to use drugs, and he'd never heard Floyd say anything about debts, gambling or otherwise.

It was when I asked Tex if he knew Jack Burger that he got agitated. At the mention of Burger's name, he got up from the table where we were sitting and, without a word, walked away.

I got up and followed Tex to a table in the opposite corner of the room. "I don't want to talk about Jack Burger," he said. "Go ask somebody else."

"Floyd was a friend of mine, Tex, and a friend of yours. I've heard that he was friendly with Jack Burger, too. If that's the case, then I need to know all I can about Burger. Now, what gives?"

Tex glanced furtively around the room before turning to me. "Man, I don't even want to be seen talking with you if you're getting mixed up with Burger. You . . . You don't know those guys and . . . ."

Suddenly, Tex lost what little color he had and looked as if he'd seen a ghost. "Are you . . . You aren't the guy who . . . who beat the . . . the living shit outta Burger's boy, uh, guy named Winston?"

"That's already on the street, huh?"

Tex looked at me, his eyes wide. "Oh, shit, man. You don't know who you're dealing with. Winston'll kill you, man. And he'll kill me, too, if he catches me talking to you." Tex's hands were shaking so bad the beer was sloshing around in his mug. "Get outta here, man. Forget you ever talked to me. Forget you ever heard of me. Get outta Burger's face while you're still able to walk." That said, Tex lurched to his feet and hurried out the back door. By the time I got there, he was nowhere in sight.

I walked down the alley, then to the street that ran in front of The Four Aces, and to a bus stop. When the bus came, I looked back down the street toward The Four Aces. Tex wasn't in sight, but two of the guys he had been playing pool with were watching me from the door.

There was a homeless shelter a dozen blocks down the street. It's no secret that many of the homeless are veterans, and I know a few of the vets who call this particular shelter "home." When I got off the bus there, I spotted a man I know named Blake Sanford. We'd been stationed together for awhile in the service and had become pretty close friends.

Blake has been in pretty bad shape for some time. He's had cancer for several years, and it's gotten progressively worse. In fact, he's been mostly confined to a wheelchair for over a year now. The staff members at the shelter all like him, and they take good care of him, even though every now and then somebody tries to get them to put him away in a nursing home or ship him off to a VA facility.

Every day when the weather's nice, somebody pushes Blake outside. He parks his wheelchair at the end of a bench near the sidewalk in front of the shelter so he can talk to people who will take the time to sit and talk. I'd begin with him.

After a little chitchat with Blake about the great weather we'd been having lately, I got around to asking if he knew Floyd. Blake said he knew his name, but that was about all. Used to see him every now and then but hadn't seen him for several years. Heard he'd been killed. Then I asked if he knew Jack Burger.

Blake's eyes lit up. "Yeah, I know him. Worked for him a little, though it seems like a long time ago now." Blake coughed and wheezed for maybe half a minute, like it was hard for him to catch his breath. When his breathing settled down, he looked around us in a way that reminded me of Tex looking around the Four Aces.

"Doc says I'll be gone in a few weeks so I guess I don't have much to fear from Burger or his hoods anymore." Blake's cough shook his whole body again. "Tell ya what, Big Guy, ol' friend . . . ." He looked at me.

"What?"

"You buy me a bottle of whisky, and I'll tell you some stories about ole Jack Burger. Maybe more stories than you wantta hear. Even tell you about some interesting things I saw in his warehouse at one time or 'nother. How's that for a deal?"

"It's a deal. Where do you buy whisky 'round here?"

"Up 'round the corner there's a liquor store."

"Want me to push you up there so you can pick out what you want?"

"No. Get me a small bottle of Jack Daniel's, one that's small enough I can hide it inside my shirt. I'll be here when you get back."

True to his word, Blake was sitting right where I'd left him when I got back with the brown paper bag. His head was slumped forward, and I had to rouse him from his impromptu snooze in the sun.

Blake didn't have the strength in his fingers to loosen the bottle cap so I did that for him. He took a sip straight from the bottle, said "Good stuff!" and gave me a lopsided grin.

"Like I said, Mel, I did a little work for Burger once upon a time," Blake began. His eyes glazed over for a moment, then he looked around before he got back to me. "If Burger knew I was gonna tell you what I saw in his warehouse, Mel, he'd kill us both--Bang! Bang! Bang!--right this minute!" Blake went silent.

"What kinda work did you do for Burger?"

"Different things. I was a courier once. Wasn't really for Burger, though. That was for a guy named Fletcher. Mike Fletcher. Burger works for him, you know. At least he did when I associated with them."

"You were a courier?"

"That's what Fletcher called it. 'Courier' sounds better than errand boy, I guess. Anyway, I delivered a briefcase for him to a man in Thailand."

"Thailand?"

"Yup. Fletcher bought the airline tickets and gave me a briefcase. I delivered it to a man in Thailand. Brought another briefcase back to Fletcher. Don't know what was in either of 'em. Didn't want to know, neither. Both briefcases were sealed tight. Fletcher'd known if I'da sneaked a look inside either of 'em."

"You mean you were able to go through customs with a sealed briefcase--twice?"

"Yep. Fletcher's people never have any problems going through customs. He explained that he had an 'arrangement'--don't ask me, I don't know anything more than what he said, and that's all he said. Told me I wouldn't have any problems if I just got in the line he told me to and said what he told me to, and he was right. I went right straight through both times just like I didn't even have a briefcase in my hand." Blake took another sip of whiskey, then added, "He paid me well for that trip, Mel. Paid me $1,000 in cash. Paid me with crisp, new $50 bills. That was Fletcher's trademark, payin' people with crisp, new $50 bills. Said I'd done a good job, too, and that he'd send me somewhere again before long."

"Did he send you anywhere else?"

"Did he what? Oh, did I take any more trips for Fletcher? No. I told him I would, that I liked to travel, but the cancer knocked me down before I could do anything more like that for him."

"You said you saw something interesting in Burger's warehouse."

Blake looked both ways up and down the sidewalk and around behind us, straining his neck as far as he could to either side. Satisfied that there was nobody near to hear him, he turned his attention back to me again. "There was a bunch of wooden boxes, crates, really, piled in a room. It was a room near Burger's office area that usually was kept locked with a big lock and chain. Locked and booby trapped. I wasn't supposed to see into it, but one day one of the guys working there left the door open and I walked by. Having seen 'em before in the service, I recognized those boxes. They were the kind of boxes surface-to-air missiles come packed in, the kind of missiles a man holds on his shoulder and fires at an airplane. You know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean. Are you sure that's what they were?"

"Hell, yes, I'm sure, Mel. I could see the ends of these boxes, and they had the same wording stenciled on them as those I'd seen in the service." Blake took another sip of whiskey, coughed again, then grinned at me. "That's damned good stuff, even if it kills me like the doctor says it will. Tell ya somethin' else Burger had in his warehouse."

"Okay."

"Ammo. Lots and lots and lots of ammo. Military ammo."

"Military ammo? Whadidya see, Blake?"

"There was one wall piled high with those olive drab boxes of 7.62 x 39 mm ammo, the kind that fits an AK-47. They had the NATO lettering on the sides in yellow letters. There were other boxes of military ammo sittin' around, too. Couldn't be sure what that all was, though. Like I said, that stuff wasn't meant for me to see, an' I didn't get real close to it."

"Besides the AK-47 rounds, what other kinds of ammo do you think were there?"

"There were some of those flat gray steel boxes, maybe a foot wide by eight inches deep by four inches high. My best guess would be 20 mm ammo. There were some of those tall gray fiberglass ammo cans, too, maybe fourteen inches high and wide by six inches thick. Remember those?"

"Um-hm. Twenty-five mm?"

"That'd be my guess."

"Were those boxes full of ammo? Maybe Burger just had the cans, like all the military surplus outlets do now?"

Blake thought a minute before answering.

"Two things make me think they were filled with ammo. I saw Burger's guys carrying them, and it looked like they were real heavy, and then I saw some loose ammo around on the floor that probably spilled out of those cans. No, sir, Mel, I don't think that was your usual military surplus for the civilian market!" Blake grinned that lopsided grin, then continued. "Wanta know the truth, I think Burger was runnin' missiles and ammo. Maybe he was runnin' guns, too, but I never saw any of those. But there was always ammo around. There's a good world-wide market for that stuff, you know."

Blake fell silent, and I hoped he wasn't sorry he'd told me about what he'd seen at Burger's warehouse. A few minutes later, though, he continued talking. "A lot of people don't like Burger's boss, Fletcher. They say he's mixed up with organized crime and all that, and I don't doubt it for a minute. You know as well as I do what they were doing with those missiles and ammo." He looked at me expectantly.

I nodded my head in agreement and he continued. "Well, whatever you hear about Fletcher, he was good to me. See, like I told ya, the cancer started getting me down about the time I got started working for him. But even when I was so bad I couldn't get around very well, he kept me busy doing things that I could do."

"What kinda things did you do for him then?"

"Give you an example. One day Burger got in a semi-truck load of radios. They were made in China. At least that's what the labels said. Anyway, they were shipped needing a little bit of assembly because there was an ornamental piece that needed to be fastened to the tops of them. Fletcher showed me what needed to be done and asked if I could handle it. I said I could. Two of Burger's guys set me up at a work table with a screwdriver and a little wrench, and I went to work on those radios. Fletcher said I didn't have to hurry, and I didn't, but I got 'em done. He paid me, too, with those same crisp, new $50 bills. A few weeks later, I saw one of those radios in a department store window here in town. It kinda made me proud to know that I'd assembled it. Know what I mean?"

I could understand Blake's feelings about Fletcher, and about having assembled those radios, even if he'd just added a little ornamental piece. "Sure do."

Blake took a heavy pull on the whiskey, drifted off into a world of his own for awhile, and then turned his attention back to me. "That reminds me of something else I've never told anybody." He handed me the bottle of whiskey to hold while he fumbled in his shirt pocket, produced his wallet, and withdrew a Thailand note. "When I die, everybody'll think this is a souvenir I picked up in Asia. It ain't." He handed me the note.

"Tell me about it."

"While I was working on those radios in Burger's warehouse, two guys were loadin' crates into a truck backed up to an open door. The guys were using a forklift, ya know what I mean?"

"Yes."

"These were big crates, maybe six feet long and three feet wide. Anyway, they dropped one of the crates off the forklift. One corner split open and a dozen or so of these little papers bounced out. There was a breeze through that door that day, and some of these little papers blew over my way. I wasn't too steady on my feet, but I managed to go out and pick up three of them, palm one, and give the others back to the guys. Of course, they put 'em back in the crate and nailed it shut. Now, that," he motioned toward the note he'd given me, "is the one I palmed."

Blake paused to take the whiskey bottle from me and tip it up, and I figured the story was over. It wasn't. "Here's the interesting thing. Remember, I said I picked up three of them. Well, I saw something interesting. Very interesting. Those three notes had consecutive serial numbers."

"Consecutive serial numbers?"

"Yup. Now, doesn't that strike you as odd? Here's three notes that look like they've circulated quite a bit, and they've got consecutive serial numbers?"

"It sure does."

"Take a look at that note." Blake was getting agitated now, his hands shaking. "It sure does look real, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does, far as I can tell."

"It ain't. It's counterfeit. Ol' Burger or Fletcher or whoever was runnin' counterfeit currency. Can you imagine what a shipload of counterfeit currency could do to destabilize one of those little backwater third-world countries? It wouldn't have to be very high quality counterfeit, either, 'cause a lot of the people there couldn't tell the difference anymore than you can."

With the help of the booze, Blake was getting tired, sleepy. I gave him back the counterfeit note and held the whiskey bottle while he put the note back in his wallet. Then he tucked the bottle inside his shirt and grinned at me. "They'll take it away from me if they find it," he explained. his head slumped down on his chest. "I'm tuckered out. It's time for a nap."

I stood up. Blake suddenly raised his head. "You were a good cop, Mel."

"Thanks, Blake."

Blake's eyes met mine. "Yup. I sure thought so. And now you're lookin' into Floyd Duboise's murder, an' that means looking into his activities, an' that leads you to Jack Burger?"

"Looks like it."

"Well, then, you'd better realize what you're dealing with, Mel. Burger is pure evil, right out of the bottle. Did I tell ya about the booby traps Burger's got on some of the doors in his warehouse?"

"No."

"Better sit down again. I've never told anybody this, neither. Burger's got some of the doors inside his warehouse booby trapped with live hand grenades."

"Live hand grenades?"

"Yup. He showed 'em to me one day. He was real proud of 'em. On this one door to the room where the missiles were stored, he had a grenade fastened just inside the door, up near the top of the door frame. He'd run a wire from the grenade's pin to the head of a big nail that dropped into a hole in the top of the door to the room. Anybody who knew the grenade was there would lift the nail out of the door before he opened it. If someone came by and pulled the door open without removing that nail, he'd pull the pin out of the grenade and, KER-BAM! It'd go off in his face. Helluva trap."

Blake paused, tired from all the talking, but his eyes danced as he looked up at me. "Burger told me that he was just waitin' for somebody to go nosin' around his warehouse an', Mel, I thought you outta know about those grenades before you go nosin' around Burger's warehouse. Which is what I figure you're gonna do, sooner or later."

"We never had this conversation, but thanks, Blake." I stood up again. Blake's eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily.

"Come back, Mel," he mumbled. I promised him I would.

When I reached the bus stop, I looked back at Blake. He appeared to be sleeping, and one of the men from the shelter was wheeling him back inside.
Chapter 7

I almost didn't recognize Dana that evening when she pushed open the door to Al's Tavern and strode confidently inside. Instead of the uniform-like gray blazer and slacks she'd been wearing that morning when she'd given me the lecture about not interfering with the government's investigation, she now wore tight jeans and a snug tank top that hugged her breasts and showed off her trim midsection. Sex-x-xy!

Before I could leave my seat opposite the pool tables, Dana spotted me and headed my way. That mischievous grin played across her face again. She obviously wasn't wearing a bra, and those magnificent breasts jiggled seductively as she walked.

"Didn't think I'd show, didya, Big Guy?" she giggled.

I held out my hand and Dana slapped it. "Didn't know, but I was hopin', and I'm mighty glad you did."

Annie came over, and I introduced the two girls. They were both very attractive women but a study in contrasts: Dana with her strawberry blonde hair, fair skin, and fine features. Annie with her raven hair, short cut with bangs, and dark skin, and broad facial features. Beautiful girls!

I asked Dana what she'd like to drink. She said she'd have a Bud. "Wantta sandwich, too?"

"Umm-m." Dana responded absently. She was looking past Annie toward the sign that announced our ladies' pool tournament. "Maybe later."

She turned to me, a fake pout on her lips. "You didn't tell me you guys were having a ladies' pool tournament tonight. I love to play pool! Haven't played much lately, but I used to play a lot. I was pretty good, too. My dad taught me. Is it too late to enter?"

I told Dana she could still enter the tournament, and she told Annie she'd have that sandwich later. While Annie went to get Dana's beer, I took Dana over to the bar to meet Al and to register her for the tournament. Al put her entrance fee on my tab.

We have good competition at our ladies' pool tournaments. That's partly because we offer decent cash prizes. It works this way. Each participant pays a $10 entrance fee. Al's Tavern kicks in $30 for each participant. If we have 10 girls competing, we'll have $40 each or $400 in prize money to be divided up among the top four winners. The winner gets half, in this case $200. Second place wins half of what's left or $100. Third place wins $75. Fourth place wins the remaining $25.

Of course, Al's Tavern is the real winner because we always have good crowds for these tournaments. Guys and girls alike ogle the pool players, cheer them on, and drink lots of beer. Everybody has a good time, and even the girls who lose at pool go home winners. I'll share a secret with you: Winner or loser, not one of the girls has ever gone home alone after playing competitive pool, not in all the years we've sponsored these tournaments.

Dana selected a cue from the rack and practiced at one of the older tables at the back of the tavern that wasn't being used. It wasn't long before Al called the contestants together and had them draw numbered disks from a box to determine the order of play. Guys and girls crowded around the contestants. Soon, it was time for the tournament to begin.

Dana's the kind of girl who turns heads in Al's Tavern. Actually, she's the kind of girl who'd turn heads anywhere. Of course, the guys ogled her breasts and butt as she waited her turn at the pool table, but that didn't seem to bother her one bit. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying the attention, as if she were used to being at the center of things.

Al and Annie converged on me the moment Dana started to play, both looking in Dana's direction and asking at the same time, "She a cop, Mel?" I told them who Dana was and how I'd met her. Annie grinned and whispered, "Nice figure, you lucky dog," as she turned to leave. Al just smiled the smile of an old married man. He knows what's going on.

I kept an eye on the pool players and, when everything seemed to be going smoothly, retreated to a quiet corner of the tavern and called Sandy. She said she was doing okay and that she hadn't had any more visits from the cops.

I filled Sandy in a little on what I'd been doing, leaving out the part about the federal investigation I'd been warned away from. Then I asked her if Floyd had ever mentioned any names of people, friends or people he worked with, who might know something about his activities during the few days before he was killed. She said she'd try to think of anyone but that she couldn't right off. Then I asked if the names Jack Burger, Mike Fletcher, or Winston meant anything to her.

"No, Floyd never mentioned any of . . . ." Sandy broke off what she was saying, was silent for a moment, then blurted out: "Mike Fletcher? You mean the Mike Fletcher, the . . . the crooked . . . ?"

"Yes."

"Oh, my gosh! Was . . . Was Floyd mixed up with those people?"

I had to be honest. "Maybe. I don't know yet, and if he was, I don't know how or why."

"Isn't Mike Fletcher the one everybody thought had connections with organized crime? The one they tried on tax evasion charges a few years ago?"

"Same one."

"Oh, gosh, Mel. I remember all the stories that went around about Mike Fletcher and his gang, how they'd killed people to keep them from testifying at the trial, things like that. Those are dangerous people. You be careful if you're dealing with them. I . . . I don't want you getting hurt."

I assured her that I'd be careful, and we chatted for a few minutes. Only when we were about to hang up did Sandy tell me she'd had a call from Ernie. "He was just checking up on me, making sure that I was all right," she explained hastily. I could hear the smile in her voice. Good for Ernie.

Then something must have clicked in Sandy's mind. "Does Ernie know the kinds of guys you're dealing with?" I assured her he did. "Don't let anything happen to Ernie. I don't want him getting hurt either," she whispered just before she wished me a "Good night."

Dana won her first game but just barely. "I'm rusty," she confided, as she tipped a fresh Bud and we watched two new games in progress.

"We have these tournaments twice a month, Dana. You just need to drop in regularly for practice. Get your winning form back and win some cash. Have some fun at it, too."

"Right! Dad used to call me 'Dana Sharkey,' but I'll need some practice before anyone will call me that again." Dana beamed up at me with her mischievous grin and bumped me twice with her hip. What the heck? I put my arm around her waist and pulled her close. She didn't object to my hug, not one little bit.

Dana was getting her skills back fast as she played. She won her second game handily with one long run after another. Some of the regular girls didn't look too happy about Dana's being there and winning, but the guys were cheering her on--and ogling her. The other girls probably didn't much like that either. Hell, they knew damned well what every one of the guys had in mind. And, like I said, none of the girls were likely to leave Al's Tavern by themselves that night.

I got to thinking about two things when Dana left my side to begin her third game. First, she'd called me "Big Guy." Maybe that was because to her and most girls I am a big guy, but I doubted that. No. Not likely. Dana no doubt had been checking up on me. That thought flattered me in a way, and I wondered exactly what she'd learned about me other than my nickname.

The other thing I'd been thinking about was the $100,000 in cash Floyd was supposed to have had in his possession when he died. If the cops were telling the truth, the cash was missing. Maybe I'd been on the wrong trail. Maybe I should have been looking for the cash all along.

Something else related to that missing cash troubled me. From what Blake had told me that afternoon, Fletcher paid him in cash. What if Floyd had worked for Fletcher or Burger and they had paid him in cash. Where had he stashed that cash? Of course, Floyd might have had the $100,000 in cash hidden in his room, and there was no way I could get in to see his room without illegally breaking the police seal on the door. Besides, the cops probably would have found any cash hidden in Floyd's room already.

I called Sandy back and apologized for bothering her, then asked if she'd heard anything more about when she could collect her brother's things from his room. She said she hadn't heard a thing and asked if I thought it would be okay for her to call Detective Bloomington about getting Floyd's things. I suggested that she do that the next morning. Then I asked if the police had given her a list of the things they took from his room. Again, no, they hadn't. She'd also ask for that list when she called Bloomington.

"Call me tomorrow morning after you talk to Bloomington. Use my smart-phone number," I told her.

Dana was winning her game handily and putting on quite a show for the guys at the same time, but I couldn't stay focused on her and Floyd at the same time. I knew I had to consider the possibility that the disappearance of the cash Floyd might have been carrying had something to do with his death and, to be honest, I was getting pissed at the way the police were handling the investigation. Hell, now that I'd thought about it, I might have to shift gears and hit the whole investigation from another angle!

Paul wasn't home when I called him, so I called Ken and asked who he knew in the Police Department of Internal Affairs. He gave me the name of a woman named Rene Forrester. Said he'd call her and smooth my way to talk directly with her, and I told him I'd have him do that later. Not before I needed her advice, though.

Dana won her third game, lost the fourth, and won the rest, to take third place and $75. Was she ever happy! She bounded over to where I was standing and threw her arms around me. "I knew I could do it," she whispered, then giggled and added, "I'll win the top prize next time!"

"You're a winner with me right now!" I whispered back.

That mischievous smile lit up Dana's face. "I'm ready for that sandwich now and another Bud. Okay, Big Guy?"

Things got back to normal after the pool tournament. The girls who were contestants in the tournament were toasted and hugged, and the single ones were courted. Other guys and girls took over the pool tables while still others found dark, secluded places to cuddle and make out.

It was getting close to closing time when Dana gave me my second happy surprise of the evening. When I asked if she wanted me to make arrangements for her to get safely home, wherever she was staying, she put her lips close to my ear and whispered, "Aren't you going to invite me to stay with you tonight?"

I couldn't help but grin when I looked at Dana because she had that mischievous grin on her face.

"Well?" she giggled.

"Of course, I am!" I whispered back.
Chapter 8

We were hardly into my room when Dana threw her arms around my neck, hugged me tight, and turned her face up for a kiss. I help her close and kissed her full on the mouth, a warm, lingering kiss. After what seemed like hours, we both came up for air.

"You and me, we gotta talk, Mel," Dana gasped.

"Okay." I had no idea what was coming.

We both kicked off our shoes, and Dana pushed me down on the bed. I swung my legs around so I was seated against the headboard. Dana sprang onto the bed right behind me and straddled my legs, kneeling and facing me, that mischievous grin lighting up her face as she wriggled herself closer to me.

"We've only known each other for a little while, a very little while," she began. With only a slight hesitation, she continued, "Well, actually, I've been keeping an eagle-eye on you for the past two days."

I raised my eyebrows in feigned surprise. "Really?"

"Oh, yes, I have. You didn't know it but I have. I've also dug up all sorts of fascinating information about you--your service record, your day-by-day activities--the works!"

I grinned at her. "And you still associate with the likes of me?" I teased.

Dana's big blue eyes sparkled. "Mel, when it comes to personal relationships, I'm a straight shooter, and I'm trying to be completely honest with you. I really, really like you. I won't say I love you yet, but that'll come if you let it. Don't think I jump into bed with every guy I meet or that I go after all the guys. No. No. No. You're the only guy I've ever said these things to, but you've got to make a decision about what happens next between us, between me and you." As she spoke, Dana's slender finger nervously traced up and down my chest where my shirt was open at the neck.

"A decision?" I've got to make a decision?"

"Yep. Mel, I hope you like me, even if it's just a little bit 'cause if you do, I'm gonna make my absolute best play for you. Gonna hug you and kiss you and be the best friend you've ever had, and I'll be one hundred percent faithful to you, as long as you give me a chance. Tell ya something else, Big Guy. If you'll hang in there with me, one of these days I'll fix you the best steak-and-eggs breakfast you've ever eaten."

"Dana, . . . ." I started to rely, but she raised that finger to my lips to shush me.

"If you tell me you're not interested in me or that you don't like me, I give you my word, I'm outta here and outta your life forever. Like I said, though, give me just a tiny bit of encouragement, and I'm gonna make one heckuva play for you, Big Guy. Please?"

"Dana, . . . ." All I could do was shake my head and laugh. She was so darn serious and, well, just plain cute.

"Wait," Dana interrupted, "There's one more thing. And don't you dare laugh at what I'm saying either! I'm absolutely serious in what I'm saying.

"About this morning. I said what I had to say, what I'd been instructed to say. As you guessed, I taped it, too, to prove I did it just the way I was told to. It wasn't my idea or my words, and I hope you understand that. Even though I know you're not going to stop looking for Floyd Duboise's killer, I sure don't want you to get hurt. Maybe we can even team up a little bit on your investigation, but like I was saying, give me a little encouragement. Please? Please? Please?" The words tumbled out as she bounced up and down on my legs.

"Give me a chance, Dana." I held up my hand and pressed my finger to her lips. "Of course, I like you, and a lot more than a little bit or I wouldn't have invited you up here to stay all night. I don't hop into bed with every girl I meet or even invite 'em to stay with me. It's just that you gotta realize something about me--and live with it."

"What's that? Be honest with me."

"Life scars a lot of guys, Dana, and in different ways. Look at my friend, Ernie, there. You know who he is?"

"I know Ernie. I checked out all of your friends."

"Okay, so Ernie's scarred bad on the outside. Others of us, though, like me, we carry our scars inside. Those scars may make it hard for me to respond to you in the way you'd like or I'd like 'cause I couldn't stand it if something happened to you, especially if it happened because of something I did."

Dana took my face in her hands and shook it gently. "Mel, if you give me the chance, I'm gonna do my best to make you forget all about what happened in Turkey. Now, 'nuff talk?"

"Nuff talk!" She obviously knew what had gone down in Turkey--at least the first part. Maybe she knew how I'd got my revenge on Stephanie's killer, too. Well, enough of those thoughts. I put my arms around Dana and pulled her close to me, then leaned over and kissed her on the neck, right under her ear.

"Yummm!" Dana purred. Her fingers tore at the buttons on my shirt. I kissed her again and, seconds later, she pulled my shirt open and out of my slacks. Moments later, Dana pulled her t-shirt over her head and snuggled close. It would prove to be the most wonderful night I've had in years.

The next morning, I called Ernie to come and pick Dana up. Whew! How I hated to see her leave. She had promised to see me again that night, of course, but it was still terribly hard to watch her climb into Ernie's cab. Considering what I planned to do that day, night was a long way off.

* * * * *

Having seen first-hand what kind of people Floyd had been working with, regardless of which side of the law he'd been working on, made me realize full well that both Dana and I were likely in danger if either of us pursued an investigtion into his death--and there was no way I was going to rest until I had found his killers. No way!
Chapter 9

About mid-morning, my phone chirped. It was Sandy, calling to let me know that she'd talked with Detective Bloomington. He'd told her that the police were through with her brother's room and that she could clean out his things any time.

"I asked him if the police had taken any of my brother's things, and he admitted they had. So, I played dumb and asked him when I could have them back." Sandy actually giggled as she spoke.

"Good for you. What did he say to that?"

"He said I couldn't have them back 'till after the police had solved Floyd's murder, so I asked him how they were coming with that. Oh, boy! He didn't like that question."

"He didn't, huh? What'd he say?"

"Told me they were working on it, but sometimes these things take a long time. It wasn't so much what he said but how he said it. Kinda like dumb little ole me oughtta know better than to ask such stupid questions." She giggled again. "I'm getting real uppity--for me. I think you and Ernie are having a bad influence on me!"

"A bad influence, huh? That kind of bad influence we'll go for."

"Um-hmm! Know what? I even asked Bloomington if I could have a list of the things the police took from my brother's room and from his car. He didn't act like he wanted to give me a list, but he said he'd see."

"Good for you! Keep pushing him."

"Now, for my real reason for calling. What do you want to do about getting Floyd's things?"

I told her that Ernie and Ken and I would go with her when she went to get them. "Let's try for one o'clock this afternoon. We'll go over the room and through all of Floyd's things to see if they can shed some light on his death," I told her.

Sandy volunteered to call Ernie and Ken to see if they could meet us at the Pleasanton Hotel, where Floyd had lived, at one o'clock that afternoon. "I know I can take the afternoon off. If today works for Ernie and Ken, I'll call the hotel and make arrangements for us to meet the manager there." She promised she'd call me back as soon as she'd made arrangements or to arrange for another time if plans didn't work out for that afternoon. As it turned out, things worked out just fine.

Ken picked me up after I finished lunch. Ernie picked up Sandy. We parked near the hotel and I asked Ernie and Sandy to sit with us in Ken's cab for a few minutes to do some thinking and planning before we went in.

To my mind, we had two objectives. First, we were going to help Sandy get her brother's things. Second, we were going to find anything we could that would help lead us to Floyd's killer.

Also, I wanted everyone to know that the room might be bugged. After all, the police had had the room secured for several days, and they'd had plenty of time to plant bugs. Furthermore, somebody else might have planted a bug. We'd be careful about what we said or did while we were in the room.

We agreed that we'd all feel better if we posted a lookout, so Ken agreed to stay outside in his taxi and keep an eye on both the front and back doors to the hotel. One chirp on my phone would mean that somebody of interest to us was coming in and give us time to prepare for a potential visitor. If possible, Ken would call again to let us know what was happening. If that didn't work out, he'd help us in the best way he could. I'd trust Ken anywhere.

It wasn't that we expected trouble. Still, with two cops looking for a missing briefcase with $100,000, the unhappy Feds looking over my shoulder, and maybe Burger's goons wanting to slit my throat, we wanted to be careful. Also, we didn't know what Floyd might have been into during the days or even weeks before he was killed that might have been of interest to someone we didn't even know about. Maybe we all were paranoid, but maybe it's better safe than sorry, too.

Our plan was simple. We'd brought cardboard boxes and a few clothing bags so we could help Sandy carry her brother's things down to the cars. Once we had Floyd's things loaded, we'd conduct a very careful search of the room.

Ernie and I went inside the hotel with Sandy. She presented the manager with a death certificate for Floyd and proof of her own identity, and he gave us a key to the room where Floyd lived.

Floyd's room was the typical, small, single-guy's hotel room. It was furnished with a bed, dresser, table, two chairs, and a television set. Other than the television set, it wasn't much different from my room over the tavern.

What struck me about the room was its neatness. It wasn't as if the cleaning crew had just been there. Instead, it was more likely that Floyd had been a very orderly guy. His bed was neatly made, his clothing hung in an orderly manner, shirts with shirts, slacks with slacks, and shoes together in one corner of his closet.

We knew that the police had been there, but they hadn't left a mess for us. Of course, we didn't know if anyone else had searched Floyd's room or not. Finally, though, it was our turn.

Floyd hadn't had much more by way of personal possessions than I have--a few clothes, a few souvenirs he'd picked up in the service, the usual shaving kit and bathroom items. While Sandy and I carried Floyd's things down to Ernie's taxi, Ernie went over the room looking for bugs. He found one, too--hidden inside the telephone by Floyd's bed. Who could tell who'd planted it. Or when. We left it there.

Once we'd carried down all of Floyd's things, I took Sandy back to talk to the manager. I'd already clued her in to what I wanted to know, and she asked if the hotel had a safe where they kept valuables for the guests and tenants. He said there indeed was such a safe.

Back when I was a cop, I'd sometimes have a hunch about something, and I learned to trust those hunches. You'd think that the police who searched Floyd's room would have thought about him keeping things in a safe provided by the manager of the hotel, but apparently they hadn't. But then, most of the cops haven't lived in hotels the way Floyd or I have, either.

"Did Floyd leave anything in the safe?" Sandy asked.

The manager went to check. When he returned, he was carrying a small box about half the size of a shoe box and a small manila envelope. Both the box and envelope were sealed with sturdy strapping tape. Sandy thanked the manager and signed for the box and envelope. We took them out to Ernie's taxi.

At my suggestion, Ernie drove Sandy over to Joe's newsstand and unloaded Floyd's things into the back room where we could examine them later. On the way back to the hotel, they stopped at a hardware store to have the key to Floyd's room duplicated. "Might wantta come back over here on our own when the manager isn't around," Ernie had suggested, and I agreed.

Once Ernie and Sandy were back to stand watch, Ken and I went to work on the room. We checked every possible hiding place we could think of, the bottoms of drawers, inside the shower rod, inside the curtain rods, behind the electrical outlets and switch covers--everywhere. We even removed the medicine cabinet to check behind it, felt for loose tiles in the bathroom floor, checked the baseboards for hollowed out hiding places, and removed the registers from the heating and air conditioning duct work to look inside. Ken crawled under the bed and examined things there, and we looked over the springs and mattress. Nothing. If Floyd had hidden anything in that room, it was well hidden, to say the least, or someone else had gotten to it first.

We returned the room key to the manager and checked to see how many days remained paid up on Floyd's account. He said there were two more days, and we asked him not to rent the room before then because we might want to come back.

None of our group wanted to stop for a coffee break. We drove directly back to Joe's newsstand where Ernie and Sandy had taken Floyd's things. Joe had cleared a table for us in his back room. Once we were gathered around it, Sandy turned to me. "Okay Mel, tell us what to do. What are we looking for?"

"Let's look at the stuff from the safe, first."

"Yeah, man, that's the way to go," Ernie mumbled. He pulled out his pocket knife and offered it to Sandy. "Gonna need this to cut through that strapping tape."

Sandy sat down, and I saw her slump. The stress of dealing with her brother's things was getting to her. She pushed the box toward Ernie. "You open it, Ernie. Please."

"Okay."

Ernie carefully sliced through the tape and opened the box. We all strained for a look as he lifted the lid to reveal two stacks of currency, both stacks topped with crisp, new $50 bills.

Sandy gasped when she saw the money. "Oh, my gosh," she breathed, her eyes wide. "How . . . How much is there?"

Ernie withdrew the first bill, examined it, and then handed it to me. "Is it the real stuff, Mel?" Turning to Sandy, he replied, "We'll count it."

As near as I could tell, it was genuine United States currency. I was reminded of Blake's stories about how Fletcher had paid him in cash with crisp, new $50 bills, how that was Fletcher's trademark, but I didn't say anything about that. After all, a lot of people use $50 bills. We get 'em all the time in Al's Tavern.

Ernie counted the bills, taking them one at a time from the box and checking to be sure there wasn't anything between them or written on them. When he had finished, he had counted out 80 bills, a total of $4,000.

Leaving the currency on the table, Ernie inspected the box. The bottom was heavily lined with rumpled paper and Ernie carefully lifted it out, layer by layer. "There's something under here," he said. He uncovered a small, cloth bag and passed it to me.

I gently opened the bag and tipped the contents into my hand. A dozen beautiful gemstones sparkled in the light.

"Diamonds!" Ken declared.

"Wow! Are they real?" Sandy asked the question that was on everyone's mind.

"I'd guess they are," I said, "but we'll have to get someone who knows gems to tell us for sure."

A careful examination of the box where Ernie found the gems revealed nothing more, and Ernie replaced the cash. I took one of the gemstones so that I could get an appraisal, and Ernie placed the bag containing the rest of the gems back in the box with the cash. "Congratulations, Sandy, baby," he said, pushing the box toward her and grinning from ear to ear, "You hit the jackpot today, baby!"

"What are we going to do with that box 'till I can get it into a safe deposit box?" Sandy asked.

Ernie suggested that she put it back into Joe's safe. "It's safer in that safe than in a safe deposit box," Ken added. Sandy agreed to their suggestion.

After talking to Joe and showing him the cash and the gems, we placed the box in his big safe in the back room. I had to agree that it would be as safe there as anywhere.

We watched as Ernie next opened the envelope that Floyd had placed in the hotel's safe. Inside was a smaller plastic envelope containing a white powder. Cocaine was my first guess.

While Ernie studied the plastic envelope containing the powder, Ken picked up the envelope that it had been in. "There's something more in here," he said. He spread the open end of the envelope and looked inside, then asked for a paper towel. Reaching in with the paper towel, Ken pulled out two lead slugs, both distorted from having hit a hard target, both with dark stains on them that might be blood.

We would have to figure out what to do with the powder and those two lead slugs. Right then, though, I wanted to go through Floyd's clothing and other possessions. We added the envelope with its contents to Joe's safe.

Finding what appeared to be cocaine and the two slugs put a damper on things. Sandy looked absolutely beat. Ken and Ernie were no longer smiling. I suggested we take a break, go out front, and get Cokes from Joe's machine.

After a few minutes to let everyone relax, I picked up one of Floyd's shirts and showed how to check around the collar and hem for anything that might be hidden in the shirt. "It's easy to slice through one layer of cloth with a razor blade and hide a key or a piece of paper or any thin object between two layers of cloth," I told them. "Don't just feel the cloth. Look for cuts in the cloth or along a seam or any sign that it migth have been cut open and repaired."

A shirt collar is a pretty good place to hide things because your average burglar isn't going to look through shirts hanging in your closet. Inside the waistband of slacks is another good place. We'd check Floyd's slacks later.

We had almost finished going through Floyd's shirts when Sandy exclaimed, "Look!" and passed the shirt she was holding to me.

I could feel something hard between the thin layers of material in the shirt's collar. Turning the collar up, I could see where the material had been sliced and stitched back together. Using Ernie's pocket knife, I unstitched the stitches and found a key hidden there.

It looked like the key to a large padlock. "Any idea what this fits?" I asked as we inspected the key.

"A padlock on a public storage unit someplace?" Ernie suggested.

"Maybe a padlock inside or outside Burger's warehouse," Ken offered.

Sandy shook her head. "I don't know of anything Floyd would have had that took a key like this," she said.

Ernie turned to me. "It looks like you got your work cut out for you, Big Guy." He grinned.

Finding the key had restored our group's enthusiasm. We finished looking over Floyd's shirts, then turned our attention to his slacks and shoes. We didn't find anything else.

It was getting late, and I had to get back to Al's Tavern for the evening. Sandy asked what we should do with Floyd's clothing, and Ernie suggested that she donate it to a nearby thrift shop run by veterans. Ken and I agreed that would be a good idea. I told her that I wanted to go through Floyd's clothing one more time first and then I'd make the donation for her. No problem. Joe said that we could leave the stuff in his back room for a day or two.

Sandy thanked us all for helping her that afternoon and said she'd like to split the cash we'd found with us, something we all declined. Both Ernie and Ken volunteered to help me with the investigation and said I should call them any time. Ernie said it for all of us: "Let's find out what the hell Floyd was up to--and who killed him!"

"Keep me posted, too," Sandy added, "and if there's anything I can do to help, let me know. After all, I'm the one responsible for getting the rest of you into this mess." We assured her that we would indeed let her know what we found out about her brother, and we'd ask when we needed her help.

After Ernie and Sandy left, I called Al to tell him I'd be a little late but not to worry, I'd be there soon. That's when he chuckled and told me I had a visitor.

"Dana?" I asked.

"Yep."

"Is she still there?"

"Yep."

I hate it when Al teases me like that, making me pull every bit of information out of him. Besides, I knew that he was dying to tell me more, so I said, "Well, take good care of her 'till I get there, okay?"

"Oh, she'll be here when you get here, all right. She's up in your room right now, asleep. At least, that's what she said she was going to do when she asked me to let her in."

It was my turn to chuckle. "Oh!"

"I think she moved in this afternoon, Mel. At least, she had two suitcases and another big carry bag of some sort with her. Parked her car alongside yours out back, too. Hope you don't mind that I let her into your room."

"It's okay." I had to chuckle again at the thought of Dana's moving in that way. The spontaneity of her move fit her character as I was beginning to see it.

Suddenly, Al got serious. Very, very serious. "Do you trust that gal, Mel?" he asked, his voice low.

I didn't hesitate a second before answering. "One hundred percent, Al." Then, I had to add, "That is, with what I've got to go on now." I hoped the hell I could trust her.

"Okay, then, Big Guy, see ya when you get here."

What Dana had waiting for me, I couldn't be absolutely sure. We'd just have to see where that relationship went, although I certainly found myself attracted to her--moreso than any woman I'd met since Stephanie.
Chapter 10

When I got back to Al's Tavern, I went upstairs as quietly as I could and eased open the door to my room. Dana was there alright, sleeping like a baby in my bed. Beautiful girl. I didn't wake her. I just closed the door silently and went back downstairs.

It was still early in the evening, and there wasn't much going on in the tavern to command my attention, so I took our telephone company's yellow pages over to my usual corner table and began looking under the Storage-Household and Commercial listing. There were a number of different storage facilities listed in the yellow pages, so I narrowed my search first by looking for those closest to the hotel where Floyd lived. After all, Floyd just might have favored one close to where he lived. There were three facilities listed that were within maybe a mile or so of his hotel. Then I looked for storage facilities close to Burger's warehouse. There were a whole slug of those. I'd start with the three that were closest to Floyd's hotel.

I'd just finished writing down the addresses of the three storage units and returned the telephone book under the counter when my phone chirped. It was Ernie, and I could tell by the way he started talking that something was very wrong. "Gotta talk to ya, Big Guy. You free to talk?"

"Yes. Shoot." I walked back over to my table.

"Somebody tossed Sandy's place while she was out today," he began. "Tossed it real good."

"Crap! Tell me what you know about it."

"After we left Joe's newsstand, Sandy and I stopped by a restaurant for something to eat. When we got to her place, I walked her to her door. Soon as she opened the door, we could see that somebody had been there. It looked like a war zone. Stuff strewn around all over."

"The door wasn't broken in?"

"No. I looked at her lock, though, and it would have been easy for someone with a little training to pick."

"You call the police?"

"Yes, fast as we could. We're waiting for them now."

"Stay out of the apartment and don't touch anything. Where are you calling from, anyway?"

"We're out in my cab. I won't let Sandy go inside her apartment 'till the police get here."

"How's Sandy?"

"She's pretty upset. I was pretty upset, too. Wantta talk to her?"

"In a minute. Ernie, don't let her spend the night there alone. Either you stay with her or take her to spend the night with you out at your place, okay?"

"That's what I was thinking. Here, Mel, talk to Sandy. You tell her that last part."

Sandy came on the phone, and I tried to calm her, then suggested she spend the night with Ernie, his place or hers, and she agreed. "Mel," she said, "I'm really scared." I couldn't blame her. Seconds later, she told me the police were there and that she would call me after they'd checked over her apartment.

I'd just replaced my phone in its holster when I saw Dana open the stairway door and look around. She was wearing jeans and a denim shirt that was open at the neck and knotted under her breasts. When she spotted me, she smiled that mischievous grin that I love so much and came over.

"Hi, sleepyhead," I teased.

"Hi, Big Guy."

Dana put her arms around my neck and gave me a quick but firm kiss on the lips. I put my arm around her waist and pulled her against me, then kissed her on the neck, right under her ear. Once. Twice.

"Yum-mmm!" Dana purred softly, then turned to me. "I absolutely melt when you do that," she whispered. She stood beside me for a moment, looking over the room, then turned back to me. "I used to think I was a tough cookie, Mel," she confessed, "but when you kiss me like that, I just . . . I just go to pieces."

"Can't say that I mind that," I responded. "Are you hungry?"

"Am I ever. What's on the menu?"

"Do you mean down here or upstairs?"

Dana jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow, giggled at my pretended pain, then studied the chalkboard behind the bar where Al lists the nightly specials. "Nachos Grande, Tacos, Roast Beef Sandwich, Steak Sandwich."

When Annie came over to visit with Dana for a few minutes, Dana asked her what she'd recommend. Annie recommended the roast beef sandwich, then added that Levi would fix something special for her if she'd prefer. Dana said the roast beef sandwich sounded good to her, that she'd like one with a Bud.

"Half a dozen guys asked me when you were gonna be around to play some pool with 'em. Want to sharpen up your Dana Sharkey image tonight?" I asked.

Dana squeezed my hand. That mischievous smile flittered across her face. "Not tonight, Mel. I had a very exhausting day, and I'm going to go right back to sleep after I've eaten 'cause I want to be awake to talk with you when you come up later, okay?"

"Sure." Two guys, Jake and Phil, regulars here at the tavern, were headed our way, and I turned to Dana. "Bet you'll get an invitation to play pool right now."

Jake and Phil are a couple of good ole boys. They've been around pool halls and taverns since they were born, and they're pretty slick with women. I introduced them to Dana, and before long the three of them were cracking jokes, laughing, and talking like long lost friends. The guys let Dana know in their own unassuming way that they thought she was the prettiest girl they'd ever seen and the best pool player ever to make the scene at Al's Tavern. Said they'd like for her to teach them some of those moves she put on the ball.

Dana laughed, told them she'd watched them play and that she had a lot to learn from them, that she'd really enjoy a game with them in a night or two, just not tonight. Jake and Phil stayed around and talked until Dana's sandwich arrived, then left, letting her know they were taking a "solid gold rain check" on that future game because they wanted to "see some more of her moves."

"Guys!" Dana giggled and squeezed my hand.

"They're okay. They like you."

"I know, and I like them, too." She rolled her eyes and giggled some more. "Did you see the way they looked at my boobs and my tummy?"

"Sure. What guy wouldn't? You've got a beautiful figure, you know. A beautiful face and a beautiful figure! Supergirl!"

"Oh, you! You're so nice! I love it when you say things like that." Dana's eyes twinkled as she turned to her sandwich and wolfed it down like she was really, really hungry. "That was good!" she exclaimed.

"Want another one? Or something else?"

"No, that one was just right." Dana slid off her chair and put her arms around me. "I'm gonna run back upstairs and sleep 'cause I really do want to talk to you when you come up."

"Okay."

Dana turned to go, turned back and looked at me, her big blue eyes wide, then clutched my arm. "I love being with you, Big Guy," she whispered. "I've never been happier than I am now when I'm with you." Before I could answer, she was gone. I watched her walk away, enjoying the way her hips swayed seductively in her tight jeans as she crossed the room to the door that led to the inside stairs to my room.

I took a slow walk around the tavern, watching for any signs of trouble. There were none that I could see. Jake and Phil were shooting pool, and they both gave me wide grins. "Cool lady ya got there, Big Guy. Me, I'm gonna practice up and show that little lady how it's done," Jake boasted.

"Ha! I'll bet on her!" Phil responded, then added, "That little lady'll take you to the cleaners, Jake!"

Most of the regulars had gathered by now. Margo was there, once again looking sexy in her usual tight t-shirt that showed off her figure to good advantage.

I admit it. I enjoy talking to the people who gather at Al's Tavern each night. They're all my friends, and I feel extremely fortunate to have friends like them. After a little more banter, I went back to my table. That's when my phone chirped again.

Once again, it was Ernie. He told me that the police had come and looked over Sandy's apartment. "We found a few things missing," he said, "but for sure not the things you'd expect to be taken by a common burglar. Sandy's VCR and a couple of tapes she had with it are gone, but her jewelry wasn't touched, and that includes some pretty nice stuff. That tells me that whoever was in here was looking for something special. Maybe took the VCR to make it look like a burglary. You agree?"

"Probably so. Were the tapes anything special?"

"No. Just movies Sandy had rented. She'd watched them and was ready to return them. Now, she'll have to pay for them, I suppose."

"Did they mess up Sandy's place?"

"They sure as hell did."

"Crap!"

"Yeah. Thing is, Mel, they went through the whole place, the kitchen, bathroom living room, bedroom, closets. Which makes me suspect they didn't find what they were looking for."

"The police have a report. What did the officer say?"

"Not much. Treated it like just another burglary. Didn't give us much hope for getting the VCR back--or anything else."

"Did they take fingerprints?"

"Nope. Said it wouldn't do any good 'cause burglars these days wear gloves."

"Crap!"

"Yeah."

"You taking Sandy home with you tonight?"

"Yep."

"Ernie, did you check Sandy's apartment for bugs?"

I could hear Ernie slap himself on the forehead. "No! But I will!"

"Let me talk to Sandy."

Sandy came on the phone. I told her how sorry I was about wht happened and asked if she'd like some help in cleaning up her place. She said she would appreciate that because she didn't even know where to start, and I said I'd see what we could do about that. I told her to hang in there with Ernie at least for the night, and again she said she would. She didn't sound too disappointed about spending the night with Ernie. I sincerely hope they're enjoying each other's company.

Annie came by a few minutes later, and I told her what had happened. Right away, she volunteered to go help Sandy clean up her place. Well, actually, she just told me she was going to help Sandy. I got Sandy on the phone again then and there so Annie could talk with her. Annie let Sandy know in no uncertain terms that helping one another is what friends are for, and they made arrangements to meet at Sandy's apartment the following afternoon.

Now to find out what Dana had that she wanted to talk to me about.
Chapter 11

It was late that night, actually early the next morning, after Al's Tavern had closed, when I finally made my way up the stairs to my room. Dana heard me coming and met me at the door. She was wearing a light blue, floor-length gown and just the hint of perfume. The moment I opened the door, she pulled me inside and threw her arms around my neck in her usual, exuberant way. "I'm so glad you're finally here," she whispered.

I hugged her, kissed her. "Me, too. Have you been sleeping?"

"Um-hm. Sleeping and dreaming about you. Are you up to a talk?"

"Sure."

Dana took my hand, led me to the bed, and pushed me onto it. I kicked off my shoes and sat against the headboard, my legs outstretched like I'd had them the night before. Dana followed me onto the bed and straddled me, facing me as she had the previous night, her beautiful face only a short distance from mine.

"I had an exhausting day, terribly exhausting, and . . . ," she began, her voice trailing off.

Wantta tell me what happened?"

"Okay, Mel. I told you I was going to be straight-arrow honest with you, right? Told you that, and I meant it."

"Right. You be honest with me and I'll be honest with you. I don't want it any other way. Okay?"

"Okay. Mel, I don't want it any other way, either. So, here goes. As you can gather, I'm in town as part of a federal task force looking into some criminal activity in this area. I'm not supposed to talk about it with anyone, but just between you and me and the bedpost, we're looking into a worldwide counterfeiting operation and illegal shipments of military equipment, some of which is stolen from local military bases, not to mention the importation of drugs. You can pretty well guess who and what we're looking at--and why Customs is involved."

"This is the ongoing investigation you mentioned? The one I'm hindering, right?"

"Right. Well, I had a row with my boss this morning--over you."

I wasn't quite sure how I should be taking this. On the one hand, Dana seemed to be vaguely upset. On the other hand, she seemed to be rather smug about what she was telling me.

"Over me?"

"Um-hm. See, my boss has been working on this investigation for some time, and he's getting nowhere fast. Now you come along, start to look into the murder of a friend of yours, and you're getting closer to the core of the larger investigation than he is."

I must have looked perplexed because Dana added, "I know that I'm talking in a roundabout way, Mel, but am I making myself a little bit clear?"

"I think so. Wantta try me again?"

"Okay. My boss is the one who sent me to tell you to back off of your investigation in Duboise's death, and he's royally pissed off that you haven't. Well, this morning, I told him that the smart thing would be for us to take you on board, give you some help, and let you help us." She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

I couldn't help it. I laughed out loud. "He didn't go for that idea, huh?"

Dana laughed with me. "No way! That pissed him off even more. Said he didn't need any help from civilians--on and on and on. Said he didn't even like the idea that I was a friend of yours. Well! I told him I'd choose my own friends without any help from him. See, another problem between me and him is that he wanted me to go to bed with him the first time he saw me and I wouldn't. He took it as a personal rejection and now he sees me lovin' on you. It's a tough blow to his super-inflated ego."

"Dana, is he gonna make it tough for you? Mess with your career, things like that?"

"Nope! Not much anyway. You see, Mel, I'm a pretty good sleuth myself, and when I went to work for him, I dug up some very sensitive information about him. It's buried where he'll never find it."

Hearing her say that gave me momentary chills, and I unconsciously looked around the room. Dana caught me. "It's okay, Big Guy. I went over our room for bugs. Checked it pretty carefully."

I noticed the "our" and smiled. "Find any?"

"No. Anyway, my boss doesn't know just how much I've got on him, but he knows I've got enough to put his career on the skids. I'm going to let you know where this stuff is buried, and if anything happens to me, you'll get it and know what to do with it. I . . . I'm not going to say out loud exactly how I'll let you know just in case I missed a bug, but you'll know, Mel. You'll know." The momentary hard glint in Dana's soft blue eyes told me she meant business.

"Okay. I'm with you, Dana. Now, let me ask you. Doesn't your boss have any people working with you on the task force who can do the same kind of legwork I've been doing?"

"Oh, crap, Mel. My boss isn't an investigator in the sense you're talking about. He never did any legwork in his life, and he really doesn't put much stock in it. He'd much rather rely on wiretaps and bugs and covert surveillance like I'm involved with to get his evidence. Also, you have to realize, Mel, that if my boss can take down a major criminal operation, it's far better for his career than if he just solves another murder."

"And that's all he cares about, isn't it? His career. I've seen a host of bureaucrats who think just like him. So, the truth is, nobody is really working hard to solve Floyd's murder?"

"Not really. Bloomington is supposed to be looking into Floyd Duboise's death, but your friend's death is, well, it's connected to the overall investigation. So, my boss can't really turn Bloomington loose, or he'd be likely to mess up the investigation like my boss thinks you're messing it up. Besides, as you've probably heard, Sam Bloomington is nearing retirement. So he's not going to buck my boss. See what I mean?"

"I see." I studied her for a few moments, not sure whether I should bring up my next thought, then took a chance. "Dana, your boss won't cooperate with me, but will you?" Without waiting for an answer, I continued, "If you'll help me, I'll promise to turn over anything I find that will help you. And I mean I'll turn it over to you personally. Is it a deal?"

"It's a deal! Now, Mel, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I'm not here to weasel information out of you. I told you I'm here because I love you, and I haven't changed my mind. Never will. Of course, I'll cooperate with you, and I won't pass along anythng you tell me in confidence."

I wanted to pursue several lines of thought with Dana. "You're involved with surveillance?"

"Um-hmm. That's about all I've been doing the past few days. We've got several people we're watching day and night."

"Is one of 'em Jack Burger?"

"No. We've got his three phones tapped but that's all. Actually, we're working on some of his suppliers and shippers, the people he does business with. What I'm doing won't really help you much with your murder investigation, but I'll cooperate with you when I can."

"Okay, here's something else I'll ask about. Do you know, or at least know of, Floyd's sister?"

"Sandy Duboise? Yes."

"Her apartment was entered today while she was away. Somebody who's apparently a professional picked the lock, messed up her place, and took her VCR and some rental tapes, but it doesn't really look like a typical burglary. Whoever did it really tossed things around looking for something."

Dana looked at me for several minutes, minutes that seemed like hours. "I don't know who broke into Sandy's place, but I think I do know what they were looking for." Sandy hesitated and looked over her shoulder. "Mel, if my boss knew I was talking to you like this, he'd be furious and I'd be looking for a new job."

"What were they looking for?"

"A key."

"A key to what?"

"A key to a storage unit Floyd Duboise had rented someplace."

"What was in that storage unit?"

"Can't tell you that, Mel, 'cause I really don't know for sure. I think he was collecting some evidence, and . . . ."

"Evidence for your task force? Was Floyd working for your boss?"

"I honestly don't know. See, my boss met with the local police before I joined the task force and set up some covert operations. Floyd Duboise was one of the people involved, but I don't know exactly what his role was to be."

"Was he working with any particular cops, local cops, that is, that you know of?"

"Mel, I wish I knew, but I don't. Sorry."

"So Floyd had a storage unit of some sort where he was keeping evidence. That's interesting."

Suddenly Dana's face lit up with her mischievous smile. "I'll bet you'll find that storage unit before we do, Mel, and then you'll know! You'll let me know, and then we'll all know!" she whispered excitedly.

"You said you don't know who broke into Sandy's place, but make a wild guess. Was it someone on or working for your task force, or was it one of Jack Burger's guys?"

"Mel," Dana replied, her voice once again a whisper, "it could have been either."

"Either?" Now we were getting some place. "Then Burger knows about the key, and about the storage unit, knows about it, but doesn't know where it's at. And that means he knew that Floyd was a spy in his organization. Right?"

"He knew." Dana rocked back on her heels, then put her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes, her big blue eyes soft and shimmery. "I love you, Big Guy," she whispered.

I pulled Dana close to me, then bent to kiss her on the neck. "Yum-mm-mmm!" she moaned and snuggled even closer. Then, we were locked together in a warm embrace. "It's late, Mel, and I'm talked out for the night. Let's go to bed," she whispered.

That key we'd found had suddenly taken on even greater significance. Now to find the lock it fit. And what was guarded by that lock.
Chapter 12

After lunch the following day, Ernie drove me out to the first public storage unit on my list. I told him what Dana had said about the probability that somebody was searching Sandy's apartment for a key to Floyd's storage unit, likely the very key we had, that Burger probably knew about Floyd's activities, and that we needed to be especially alert for any tails or suspicious activities around us. Ernie understood and agreed.

Once we were on our way, Ernie pulled a little manila envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. Inside was a bug, similar to the one we'd found in the telephone in Floyd's hotel room. "Found this in Sandy's telephone," he said.

"What can you tell me about it?"

"Not much. I showed it to Jason this morning. He said it's a fairly sophisticated bug, but not the very latest technology. He said the police sometimes use this kind of bug, but so do other people.

"Is this thing still active?"

"No. Jason checked it out. Said it was designed to transmit to a recorder somewhere in the area, maybe in the building where it was found. Nobody can hear it now, though. Anyway, I thought you might have somebody in mind who could tell you where it came from."

I slipped the envelope into my shirt pocket. Maybe I did know somebody who could tell me where the bug came from. "Did you find the recorder, Ernie?"

"No. I looked around to see if there was a police stakeout vehicle on the street, and I didn't spot anything. Ken and I'll keep an eye on things around Sandy's apartment for awhile, though, to see if we can spot anything that might point to a hidden recorder. You think we could find it?"

"I doubt it. It might be hidden in Sandy's apartment building or even in her apartment, but then again it might be in a car out on the street or in one of the buildings nearby. Bugs these days broadcast quite a distance. Depending on how good a job somebody did of hiding the recorder, it could be nearly impossible to find, at least with our limited time and resources."

"I hear ya."

"Okay. I gotta hard question for ya, Ernie."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"If that bug isn't broadcasting, somebody is gonna find a blank nothing on his recorder one of these days. When he does, is he gonna come back to Sandy's apartment to see what's wrong?"

"Oh, gosh, man. I don't know. Maybe I shoulda just left the damned thing there."

"I don't know what's best. Anyway, keep Sandy outta there for a few nights 'till we see what develops, okay?"

"Yeah. I'll do that. Can't say I mind the assignment either!" Ernie grinned. "Sandy's a real nice girl, and I sure do like her. Hell, you know that already, don't you? Anyway, I got plenty of room in that big, old house of mine. She and I could rattle around in there together all week and never once even bump into each other. Not that that's what we're gonna do." Ernie's grin became a huge smile. "And you know something, Big Guy?" he added. "She even says she likes the place!"

It didn't surprise me that Sandy would like Ernie's place. It's big and it's older, but it's very comfortable and is located in a nice upper-middle class neighborhood. Like the house, the neighborhood is old but well cared for. Fact is, that house is Ernie's pride and joy, and he keeps it up real nice. Belonged to his folks until they passed on and left it to Ernie. Since then, he's spent most of his spare time puttering around it. Keeping it looking great.

We rode awhile, each engrossed in his own thoughts. Then we spotted what we were looking for.

That first public storage unit we approached was surrounded by an eight-foot-high chain-link fence with three strands of barb wire on top of it. We drove right through the open gate like we belonged there, and right on into the facility between two rows of large metal buildings with their locked doors facing each other.

I fully expected that someone from security would come running to see what we were doing but nobody did. While Ernie turned his cab around at the end of the drive, I tried Floyd's key in every padlock in the place, one right after the other. It went into several of the locks but it didn't turn. Even so, I got a pretty good idea of the size and type of the padlock we were searching for.

Next, we drove to a hardware store and looked at the padlocks and bought one like the ones Floyd's key fit into. If we found a storage unit with Floyd's lock, I'd exchange locks. That should frustrate the heck outta anyone who found a second key to Floyd's lock and went looking for that particular unit, at least until we could figure out what we wanted to do. After all, most padlocks come with two keys, and I had no idea where the other one that came with Floyd's lock might be.

The second storage facility on my list had a steel-reinforced gate that could be opened only by a coded card. If Floyd had been using that facility, he would have been issued a pass-card. The fact that we hadn't found one didn't mean he didn't have one, of course, but we bypassed that facility and drove on to the third. The fence surrounding that storage facility didn't look too sturdy and, if we had any trouble getting into the facility that afternoon, we'd do it at night--in our own way.

A security guard came out of a small office and met us at the open gate when we drove into the third facility. I showed him the key, and he said, "Okay, guys," and went back to watching his television set. So much for security, unless, of course, he was smooth enough to let us in and then call somebody. I told Ernie to keep an eye on the guard to make sure he didn't get right on the phone.

This particular storage facility was built in the shape of an "L." We drove down a row of padlocked doors, then turned a corner and were out of sight of security. We'd start there. Once again, Ernie turned his car around while watching the security guard in his rear-view mirror. I checked the padlocks. On the sixth door, the key not only slid into the lock like it belonged there but turned with a "click." Bingo! We' found the storage unit that opened to Floyd's key.

I didn't have time to open the door because my phone chirped just then, and I knew it was Ernie telling me to get moving. I quickly removed Floyd's padlock and replaced it with the new one we'd purchased earlier, then sprinted to where Ernie had parked. Ernie had the passenger door open, and I jumped into his taxi. We got the hell out of there.

Ernie had, indeed, seen the security guard get on the phone. Of course, we had no way of knowing if he'd called somebody about us, but we weren't ready to take that chance.

We didn't know from which direction someone might come looking for us, so we drove up a side street and parked out of sight of security but where we could watch the traffic going past the storage facility. After we watched for awhile and didn't see anyone we knew, Ernie said he guessed we'd misjudged the security guard's call.

Maybe. Maybe not. At any rate, I'd developed a plan. There were several doors to storage units near Floyd's unit in that facility that didn't have padlocks. That meant they probably weren't rented.

I called Ken and asked him to meet us in the parking lot of a nearby strip mall. When he arrived, per my request, he was driving his beat up old green Ford pickup instead of his cab. I filled him in on what we'd found, then told him my plan. A few minutes later, he was on the phone to the storage facility manager, asking about renting a unit.

From looking at the units, I'd gotten the impression that the ones at the end of the "L" where Floyd's was located were quite a bit smaller than the others. When the manager asked what size Ken needed, he said he wanted one of the smaller ones. Soon, Ken was making arrangements to meet the manager at the facility to rent what the manager called a mini-warehouse, five by seven feet in size. I gave Ken the cash to cover the security deposit and a month's rent on his new mini-warehouse.

When Ken drove into that storage facility a little later in the afternoon, he was hauling several big cardboard boxes, including a large packing box that once contained a commercial automatic washer, in the back of his truck. I was inside that box along with the padlock that I'd taken from Floyd's unit. I'd also brought along a new digital camera we'd picked up at a drug store.

I'd been right about the vacant rental units. Ken rented a unit just two doors down from Floyd's, then drove us around the corner to it after he'd completed the paper work--in an assumed name. Once out of the security guard's sight, Ken helped me out of the box. I quickly unlocked Floyd's unit, and Ken raised the roll-up door.

I don't know just what I expected to find in that storage unit, maybe something that someone would kill for. If I'd been expecting an immediate clue to Floyd's killer, though, I'd have been disappointed. The storage unit was mostly empty. Inside were four cardboard boxes neatly arranged on the top shelf of a steel shelving unit at the back of the unit and several large boxes stacked on top of each other to one side. A briefcase sat on the floor in front of them. That was it.

As I said earlier, I'd been wondering about the likely existence and whereabouts of a second key to Floyd's storage unit. After all, most padlocks like the one Floyd had used do come with two keys. We'd found the one hidden in his shirt collar. Now we had the second one. It was lying on top of one of the cardboard boxes in that storage unit. Unless Floyd had a key duplicated, a possibility but not a likelihood, we now had the only keys to his storage unit.

Using the digital camera as well as my phone's camera, I snapped pictures of the storage unit interior. Then, while Ken kept watch, I took a look at the boxes, none of which had been taped shut. Two of the boxes had been marked in what appeared to be some kind of code with a black marker. Using my handkerchief so as not to leave fingerprints, I lifted the lid to the first box. Inside were what appeared to be account ledgers of some sort. A quick glance inside one of the ledgers indicated that they contained coded entries. The second box contained what appeared to be copies of faxes and other correspondence. The top ones were printed on business letterhead paper bearing the name "Jack Burger Imports."

The third box wasn't labeled. It contained half a dozen packets of white powder similar to the one we'd found in the envelope Floyd had kept in his hotel safe. Some kind of drugs. Cocaine, most likely.

The fourth box was filled with what appeared to be well-circulated United States currency, mostly $20 bills with a few $50s. I quickly examined five or six of the bills and discovered that they had consecutive serial numbers. That box was filled with high-quality, counterfeit United States currency.

I took two of the counterfeit $20 bills and then snapped several close-up pictures of the open boxes. Using both cameras, in case one wasn't working properly, we'd get clear pictures of the contents of those boxes, and they'd give the general idea of what we'd found.

The briefcase was next. It contained row upon row of crisp, new-looking $50 bills. They appeared to be genuine. I didn't take time to count them. I'd take the briefcase with me when I left.

The large boxes stacked to one side were sealed with heavy tape. I hefted the top one and it was heavy, weighing perhaps thirty or forty pounds.

We had been at the facility long enough. I took the key and the briefcase with me and climbed back into the packing box in the back of Ken's truck. He closed and locked Floyd's storage unit. We were outta there in less time than it took me to tell you about it.

Because we had switched locks, we now were prepared to exercise several different options regarding the storage units. We could leave Ken's storage unit empty, locked with Floyd's lock as a decoy or we could quickly transfer what we'd found in Floyd's unit to Ken's unit and switch the locks back. We'd see what developed. It was good to have options.

Ernie had been keeping an eye on the entrance to the storage facility from a nearby side street. Said he hadn't spotted any suspicious activities. He followed us as we drove to another hardware store that duplicates keys and had a duplicate made of Floyd's key. I kept the original, but this way there was one for Ernie and one for Ken in case something went wrong. Two keys came with the new lock, so we also duplicated one of the new keys. That way we each had a key for the new lock I'd placed on Floyd's unit, too. I debated about making additional keys for Dana, but then decided that she could have mine once my need for them was over.

Back at Joe's newsstand, we counted the cash in the briefcase I'd taken from Floyd's storage unit. There was exactly $50,000. Could this be part of the $100,000 the two cops had told Sandy about? Not very likely. No, these bills, all brand new fifties, were more likely to be one of Fletcher's trademark payoffs to an employee, in this case Floyd, for a job well done. We could share some of the cash with Sandy later. We added the briefcase with its contents to the things already in Joe's safe.

* * * * *

Ever since Dana told me that Burger knew about Floyd's undercover operations and also knew that Floyd was keeping evidence somewhere, like in a storage unit, I'd been toying with a plan. Burger knew of the existence of a key, a key that would allow him to locate that storage unit in exactly the way we'd done. Maybe he'd be interested in trading some information for that key? With that possibility in mind, I began developing a plan.
Chapter 13

After Ernie, Ken, and I finished getting the keys duplicated that afternoon and had the briefcase filled with cash that I'd taken from Floyd's storage unit safely deposited in Joe's big safe, I asked them if they'd listen to me and tell me what was wrong with my plan. We sat around the table in Joe's back room.

"Lay it on us," Ernie encouraged me.

"Okay. Here's my thinking. We can't really do a thorough investigation into Floyd's death," I began, "because we don't have access to all the information we need. We don't have access to the materials the police took from Floyd's room or his car or the evidence this federal task force has gathered with their wiretaps and bugs and other kinds of surveillance. We don't even have a medical examiner's report. Without access to all the information, solving Floyd's murder is like trying to put together a puzzle with some of the pieces, maybe major pieces, missing. You guys know what I mean?"

Both Ken and Ernie let me know that they agreed with me that far. "We're with you. So, where do we go from here, Mel?" Ken asked. "What's your plan?"

"I don't think that what's in Floyd's storage unit will really help us much toward finding his killer. I think that what's there will help this task force nail somebody or some organization on some federal charges maybe, but--"

"By somebody, you mean Jack Burger or Mike Fletcher? That must be the organization they're looking at," Ernie interrupted.

"Right. Burger and/or Fletcher or maybe somebody else we haven't even heard of yet. And, of course, this task force is looking at the people Burger and Fletcher work with, their suppliers, their truckers, whatever.

"What it looks like to me," I continued, "is that Floyd was gathering evidence, maybe for his own use, maybe for the police, maybe for somebody else. It would take a lot of work to go through the ledgers we found, but that might be just what the task force wants to do. The three of us sure can't do it. Those ledgers wouldn't tell us anything about Floyd's murder, anyway. The drugs, I don't know. The counterfeit United States currency should interest the Feds for sure, depending on who they can tie it to. At any rate, I don't think those things can help us--directly, that is."

"Go ahead. We all agree so far," Ken assured me.

"You said you had a plan, though," Ernie reminded me. "Let's look at that."

"Okay, here goes. Both Burger and the task force want the stuff that we found in Floyd's storage unit. Neither Burger nor the task force knows where Floyd's storage unit is located, though. They want the key so they can go looking, just like we did this afternoon. That key is our ace in the hole."

"Only we changed the rules of the game this afternoon!" Ken exclaimed.

"Right. Floyd's key won't get anyone into Floyd's storage unit now, but it may buy us some information about Floyd's killer, at least when I can show the counterfeit currency as proof I've got the key that actually unlocks the unit. Follow me?"

Ernie was grinning. He'd caught the gist of what I was thinking. "Yeah, Big Guy, it may lead us right to the killer--if you stay alive long enough."

Ken knew what I was thinking, too, only he wasn't smiling as he looked from me to Ernie and back to me. "I know you, Big Guy," he began. "I know how you think. A direct frontal assault is what you've got in mind."

"Right.

"Well, sometimes that'll work, Mel, but the rest of the time it'll just get you killed," he commented, his voice flat. Obviously, Ken had some reservations about whatever it was I had in mind.

It was just as obvious that Ernie, unlike Ken, was ready for some action, whatever it might be. He still had that big grin on his face. "You're gonna do it, though, aren't you?"

"Plan to."

"Oh, boy! It sounds like you're gonna want an' maybe even need some heavy duty backup, an' that's where Ken and I come in, right?"

"Right."

"Well, then," Ernie continued, "go on, Big Guy. Outline what you're gonna do and when you're gonna do it. We'll do what we can to help, right, Ken?"

"One-hundred percent." Ken might have his reservations, but I knew I could always count on his help whenever I needed it.

I outlined my plan and concluded by saying that I knew I'd be taking some risks, but it was the only way I could think of to shake out Floyd's killer. I could tell that neither Ken nor Ernie really liked my plan because of the danger it would expose me to. They'd both back me, though, one-hundred percent, as Ken put it, and that was all I could ask.

"Tomorrow, then," I said.

"Tomorrow."

We made plans. Then Ernie drove me back to Al's Tavern.

Annie waved to me when I walked into the tavern. I waited at the bar until she finished serving a patron. When she was free for a few minutes, she came over and told me how she had helped straighten up Sandy's apartment that afternoon. "She's so shy and timid," Annie confided, and shook her head slowly.

"I know."

"I really like Sandy," Annie continued, all the while keeping her attention on her customers in case anyone needed another round, "but she really puzzles me. Maybe that's because she's so different from me. You know me, Mel, the original 'Miss Extrovert,' right?"

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Annie. You just know how to stand up for yourself and Sandy doesn't. We'll help her work on that. You'll be a good influence."

Somebody was beckoning to Annie. She excused herself and went to take an order from a customer. A few minutes later, she was back, still wanting to talk about Sandy.

"And she seemed so darn lonely, so really happy just to have me there. Do you think . . . ." Annie's voice trailed off. "I've been thinking." She cocked her head and looked up at me. "Do you think I should maybe try to do some things with her? Like maybe I could invite her to my place for pizza? Or over here some evening? Introduce her to some of the guys?"

"Sure. Invite her over here. Introduce her around. Help her make some new friends. That could be the best thing that ever happened to her."

"Well, like I say, I was thinking. Seems she really likes Ernie. Maybe she and Ernie and I and somebody could get together and do something, a movie maybe? Think she'd like that?"

"I sure do."

Just then, Annie saw a patron holding up an empty beer mug. "Gotta go. I'll think about it--and do something, okay?" She started away, then turned back to me, put her mouth close to my ear, and whispered, "Go talk to Al about Dana. Right now."

I waved to Annie as she hurried off with another beer for our customer. In my book, Annie's an angel, though an unlikely looking one with her black hair and outgoing ways. She'd be a great friend for Sandy.

When I looked Al's way, he gestured for me to come behind the bar with him. "Dana was here most of the afternoon, sleeping up in your room. Said she had to get some rest because her boss had given her a stakeout assignment that would keep her up most of the night. Levi fixed her a late-night sack lunch, and she left about half an hour ago. Said she'd be back in the morning, but it would probably be after you'd left for work."

"I figured she was probably upstairs sleeping like before."

"Nope. She plans to sleep in your room after she gets off work in the morning. Before she left, though, we had a talk, and I want you to know about it."

"What's up?"

"When I heard about this night assignment, I asked if she was going to be alone somewhere all night. She said that there would be some young cop working surveillance with her, but she seemed kinda hesitant.

"I asked her if she had a gun, and she said 'no.' So I asked if she knew how to use one, and she said 'yes.' I asked if she wanted one. She said 'yes,' so I gave her my .38 Smith & Wesson snub-nose revolver. It's the only gun I had that would fit in her purse. Loaded it with fresh ammo and let her take it."

"Good thinking. Thanks, Al."

"Actually, her only hesitation was that she didn't want to leave me here without a gun." Al chuckled. "I told her we were well fortified here, and showed her the .45 Colt we keep under the counter near the cash register and the double-barreled shotgun we keep under the far end of the bar. She took a look at those and, . . ," Al chuckled again, "she was grinning from ear to ear. Even joked about how she didn't feel bad, leaving me with that arsenal. Anyway, I wanted you to know where things stand. Okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Al. Her hotshot boss got pissed off at her yesterday, mostly over my looking into Floyd's death, so he's probably going to punish her by giving her crappy assignments like this for awhile. Thanks for giving her the gun. Hope she doesn't have to use it."

"Right. She didn't wannt to call you on your cell phone this afternoon. Said she had an idea what you were up to and didn't want to interrupt you at a bad time. Said she'd do her best to get free and call you about eight tonight at the tavern phone. So, Big Guy, stay close to the phone around eight, okay? By the way, she said the line probably won't be very secure. People will overhear at least her end of the conversation. She'll let you know, one way or another, but she said you should be careful about what you say."

"Okay. Thanks, Al." I looked at the clock. It was about six o'clock.

"Oh, one thing more. Dana left an envelope for you, but she told me to put it in our safe. Said it was for you to open if anything bad happens to her. Said you'd know what it was about." Al raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I think I know, all right. It's kind of like an insurance policy, know what I mean?"

Al knew. He went to the bar to draw a patron's beer, then came back to where I was standing. "From the way you look, Big Guy, you got something on your mind. Wantta tell me about it?"

No one is a better listener than Al. I told him the bones of my plan, and let him know I'd be late getting back to the tavern the next evening--if I came back at all.

Al wasn't too happy about my plan, not any more than Ernie and Ken had been earlier, but he didn't have any better ideas. Besides, we've been together long enough that he knows there's no point in trying to change my mind once it's made up.

Dana called me at eight, right on the dot. She said that she couldn't talk much and that the phone line wasn't at all secure, but that she wanted me to know she was thinking about me and that she loved me. I reminded her that I loved her, too--several times. There were a number of things that I wanted to talk with her about, but I wouldn't risk it over a phone line that likely was monitored, and I sure didn't tell her what I had planned for the next day. No way.

Sleep did not come easily that night. Stephanie came floating into my dreams early on, drifting though my semi-consciousness and filling my mind with the terror she must have experienced in her last hours on earth. Sometimes Stephanie's image seemed to twist and fade, only to reappear as Dana. I woke up once, thinking about Dana, hoping that my dreams weren't prophetic.

Maybe it was the uneasiness Al had expressed about Dana's night-assignment that triggered the dread in my mind. Maybe it was the knowledge that tomorrow might be the end of the line for me. Until Dana came along, that part of it wouldn't have concerned me all that much. Now, it did. Finally, after tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, I checked the time and stumbled out of bed only a few minutes before my alarm would have jarred me into action.

Well, we'd put my plan into action later that day. Either we'd get closer to understanding what happend to Floyd--or I'd be dead.
Chapter 14

There are three other roustabouts I work with in the mornings at the transport company. The four of us always take a coffee break together about ten o'clock. We've got an old sofa and a couple of overstuffed chairs in a corner of the warehouse, and that's where we gather to drink coffee and swap a few lies. The best part of our breaks is that one of the girls who works with the books in the front office usually bakes delicious cinnamon rolls for us. Oh, my! Are they ever good! Definitely one of the benefits that come with my job since homemade cinnamon rolls are arguably my biggest weakness.

We'd just filled our coffee mugs, pulled up our chairs, and were passing around the cinnamon rolls when my cell phone chirped. Even the few people who have my cell phone number usually don't call me at work except when there's an emergency so I figured that something was wrong. I got up reluctantly and walked away from the rest of the guys, withdrawing my phone from its holster as I did so.

"Sorry to bother you, Mel, but we just had a helluva thing happen here. Thought you otta know right away." I recognized Al's stressed voice.

"It's okay, Al. I'm on break. What's up?"

"Some bastard just put a bullet through the window in your room."

"Crap! Is Dana . . . ?"

"Dana's okay. She was asleep in there when it happened, though. I was here in the office working on the books when I heard the shot, and then I heard her scream. Oh, she's shook, but she's okay."

"What happened?"

"I don't know much other than what I've already told you. I was working on the books. Dana had come in earlier and said she was going to sleep. All of a sudden, I heard this shot. Sounded like a large-calibre handgun. Sounded like it came from the alley behind our building. I heard glass shatter, and I heard Dana scream. I grabbed my Colt, ran up the stairs, and Dana let me into your room."

Al paused to catch his breath, then continued, "I tried to get a look out the window without exposing myself in case the shooter was still out there, but I couldn't spot anything out of the ordinary. Oh, I may have seen the shadow of a car just outta my line of sight down the alley, but I wouldn't swear to it. Whoever did the shooting got away clean and clear."

"Dana wasn't hurt, then? You're sure?"

"No. I mean yes, I'm sure, and no, Dana wasn't hurt. She's okay. The bullet smashed hell out of the window and then slammed into the ceiling right over her head. It knocked a little plaster down on her and blew little shreds of glass all over the room but that's about all."

"You call the cops?"

"Called your friend, Paul Gallagher. He's sending someone out to take a look. Hang on, Mel, Dana wants to talk to you. Then I want to talk this over with you some more, okay?"

"Okay."

"Mel!" Dana was breathing hard and sounded real shook up as she came on the phone.

"It's me. You okay, Dana?"

"I'm okay, Mel, but am I ever shook! I'd just fallen asleep when that shot jolted me awake. It was loud! Sounded like it was right in the room with me. The window shattered--I thought something had blown up!--and I heard a 'thud!' That must have been when the bullet hit the ceiling. Plaster was landing on my head, and the next thing I heard was myself screaming. I just couldn't stop! Then Al came running up the stairs, and . . . Well, you know the rest. I'm okay, now. Honest, I am." Dana seemed to be calming down as she talked to me.

"Dana, I want you to promise me you'll do something."

"Yes? What?"

"Let Al fnd you another place to sleep today or at least where you can get some rest if you can't sleep. If you don't wantta be upstairs in one of the other rooms by yourself, there's a sofa in the office you can use. By the way, do you still have Al's gun?"

"Sure thing. It's still in my purse."

"Good. Hang on to it. Now, do you know where the gun in my room is?"

"Our room," Dana corrected me, the hint of a smile in her voice for a moment before she got deadly serious. "You mean the one under your pillow. The .45 Colt automatic?"

"Right. Do you know how to use it?"

"Yes. I've trained with one just like it."

"Okay. Remember it's there if you need it and not to be afraid to use it." Before she could respond, I reminded her, "Dana, I keep that Colt loaded, cocked, and locked. Do you know what I mean by 'cocked and locked'?"

"Yes. My firearms instructor showed me."

"Okay. The Colt's loaded with self-defense rounds--and it's cocked and locked. You know how to get it into action, right?"

"I sure do."

"Be real sure, Dana. Take a look at my Colt there and be sure you're ready to use it without having to think how. Al can go over the gun's operation with you if you've got any questions."

"I know how to use it, Mel, stop worrying. In fact, other than the fact that the Colt's grips are a little large for my hands, I'm a good shot with it."

"Great! It makes me feel better to know that. Now, remember, don't hesitate to use it."

"I won't."

"There's an extra magazine for the Colt in my dresser. Bottom drawer, front, right corner. Take a look-see when we get off the phone. It's also fully loaded with self-defense rounds. You know how to exchange magazines in the gun?"

"I sure do, Mel. I could drop an empty magazine out of a Colt auto and load in a full one as fast as anybody in my class." There was pride in Dana's voice as she told me of her accomplishments.

"Okay. You gonna be okay, Dana?"

"I . . . I think so. That . . . That shot really shook me, Mel. Do you think someone was trying to scare me, or . . . ?"

"I don't know what it was all about, Dana. Maybe it was intended to frighten you or me, a warning, maybe, to back off--of something. Ya gotta know that several different people don't like what I'm doing, looking into Floyd's death. Of course, somebody may not like what you're doing, either. Threats of one kind or another are part of a cop's life, ya know."

"I know, Mel, but I don't have to like the idea! Mel, I just don't want you getting hurt. Or me, either, for that matter. I'll give you back to Al here now, but I gotta say it again 'cause I'm serious: I love you, Mel."

"I love you, too, Dana. Don't you forget that."

Al came back on the phone. "Mel, I'll call Carter Harris as soon as the cops take a look around your room See if he can fix the window right away, okay?"

Carter Harris is our handyman, and I don't know what we'd do without him. He takes care of almost all of our repairs around the tavern. Never complains, never wastes time, always seems to know just what to do. If I knew Carter, he'd have that window repaired in no time. For sure by the time I got there that night.

"Sure. And, Al, will you find Dana another place where she can get some rest? Maybe the sofa in the office?"

"I'll do that. Hey, Mel, the cops just pulled up out front. I gotta go. I'll call ya back if anything new develops. Otherwise, call me when you get off work at noon, and I'll update you on what's going on here."

I said I would. My watch indicated that it was time for me to get back to work. Coffee time was over, and I'd missed out on the cinnamon rolls. Without asking, I knew that the guys I work with wouldn't have saved me one either. Not that I'd save them any if our situations were reversed.

Maybe I should have been more upset than I was by the news that someone had fired a shot through my window. That's not to say I wasn't concerned, but I learned to take my share of guff and threats when I was a cop. Not that anyone ever really gets used to being threatened, but I'd never backed down when I was a cop and I didn't intend to now. The truth is that threats like that tend to make me even more determined. Just so long as that shot hadn't been intended for Dana.

The flip side of any threat to me concerned me greatly. I couldn't help but ask myself 'what if' questions--and the possibility that troubled me the most was that whoever shot out my window might be trying to get at me by hurting Dana.

Questions about the identity and motivation of the person who shot out my window flitted through my mind the rest of the morning as I loaded pallets onto a truck. Winston? Burger? A dirty cop? Someone from that danged Federal task force? Who could have known that it was my room they were shooting into? Who could have known that Dana was there? How did they know? Questions came fast, but no clear answers emerged.

Al didn't call back that morning so I assumed that he had things under control to his satisfaction. When I called him after I got off work around noon, he filled me in on what had happened since we'd talked earlier.

The cops who'd answered Al's call seemed to have been pretty thorough. By looking at where the shot hit the window and where the bullet had ended up in the ceiling of my room, Al and the cops had determined approximately where the shooter had fired from in the alley behind our building. They had carefully searched the alley, but they hadn't found anything related to the shooter--no shell casing, no identifiable tracks, nothing. Of course, there hadn't been any witnesses.

The cops dug the bullet out of the ceiling in my room and took it with them as evidence. Maybe the lab could determine what kind of gun it came from. Without a gun to match it with, though, I doubted that the bullet would yield any secrets.

My window already had been repaired. Carter even had cleaned up the glass fragments and patched the ceiling. My room was "good as new," Al answered, "and maybe just a little cleaner than usual!"

Dana was just fine. She had spent the rest of the morning sleeping on the sofa in the tavern's office. Al told me confidentially that she seemed exhausted and, even though she had to have been shaken up by the shooting more than she realized, had fallen asleep immediately after the cops left. He said he'd told her that he'd be around that afternoon so she'd be okay and I didn't need to worry about her. I thanked him for staying around and keeping an eye on her for me.

Al went on to tell me there wasn't anything I could do in regard to the shooting, that as far as he was concerned I didn't have to change any of my plans for the afternoon. Finally, he wished me well. He knew what I planned to do.

"Be damned careful, Mel," he cautioned. I told him I'd do the best I could in that regard.

It was about five o'clock in the afternoon when I caught the bus to Joe's newsstand. Naturally, he wanted an update on what the rest of us had been doing. After visiting with him for a few minutes, I settled down at the desk in his back room to make what might prove to be the most important telephone call of my life.

Mike Fletcher's phone number was in the telephone book whereas Jack Burger's number wasn't, so I decided I'd start with Fletcher. A young woman with a perky voice answered the phone, and when I asked to speak to Mr. Fletcher, she put me right through to him. Much to my surprise, she didn't even ask my name.

"Mr. Fletcher," I began, "my name's Mel Wakefield." Silence. Since he didn't react in any way to my name, I continued. "I understand that you and Jack Burger have a working relationship so, when I couldn't find his name in the directory, I called you."

Fletcher didn't respond in any way to my comment about his relationship with Burger. Instead, he asked, "What's this about?" His voice was low and self-assured, and he spoke slowly.

"A friend of mine, Floyd Duboise, was killed a few days ago. I understand that he worked either for you or for Mr. Burger. While I was going through some of his things, I found something that I thought might belong to one of you."

There was a slight pause, and then Fletcher asked in his slow way, "Exactly what kind of 'something' did you find, Mr. Wakefield?"

"A key."

"A key?" Fletcher's voice seemed to reflect a measure of excitement. his words came a little faster this time.

"Yes. It's a very large key, and looks like it might fit a huge padlock. When I visited with Mr. Burger a few days ago, I saw that he had some padlocks like that on various doors in this warehouse so I thought--"

"Wait a minute," Fletcher interrupted. "You're Mel Wakefield, you say. You're the one who went to see Jack a few days ago and kicked the living crap out of his boy, Winston. Am I right?

"Right."

"So now you've got a key that you think might belong to me or to Jack."

"Right. You see, I thought Floyd might have had it because he worked for one of you and that, if that was the case, you might want it back. I can't imagine any other use he would have had for a padlock of the size that takes a key like this one."

"And what do you want for the return of that key?" Fletcher wasn't even going to pretend he didn't know what the key was for.

"What do I want for it? Whatdaya mean, want for it?" I thought I might as well string him along and see what would happen.

"I assume you have a price, that you want cash for the key."

"No, I don't want cash."

"Exactly what do you want, then?"

"Some information."

"About what?"

"About Floyd Duboise and what he was doing when he got killed."

"Didn't Jack tell you about Duboise? That was why you went to see him, wasn't it, to find out about Duboise?"

"Jack Burger gave me a bunch of bull. He--"

"Never mind," Fletcher interrupted. "I know what he told you. If you've got the key I think you have, we want it, and we'll talk to you about Duboise. I'll have Jack pick you up, say in half an hour, and we'll have a little talk, the three of us. How's that?"

I didn't want Burger or Fletcher to associate me with Joe's newsstand, so I gave Fletcher an address six blocks down the street from it. Told him I'd be waiting there, outside on the street. As soon as he hung up, I called Ernie. He'd call Ken. Things were beginning to roll. Ernie'd like that.

Jack Burger was riding in the back seat of the big black Cadillac with darkly tinted windows that stopped for me exactly thirty minutes later. Winston was driving, looking straight ahead.

"We meet again, Mr. Burger," I said, like some character from an old radio thriller, as I slid into the car beside him. Burger didn't pick up on my feeble attempt at humor. Not that I'd really expected him to. In fact, except for Burger's grunted "Yeah!" neither of the men acknowledged me in any way.

I couldn't help but notice the bulge of a handgun in Burger's jacket pocket, and I didn't doubt for a minute that Winston was carrying, too. Maybe I should have carried my own gun, but maybe it was just as well that I hadn't.

Winston drove directly to Jack Burger's warehouse, the same facility I'd been to when I'd talked to Burger before. As we approached the warehouse, I noticed that Ken's rusty old Ford pickup was in place, parked across and down the street. The old gray Chevy Ernie usually drives wasn't in sight. I was betting on it being close by, though. Betting my life on it, as a matter of fact.

Burger went ahead of me through the front door, then on through the second door that led to the corner in the warehouse where his office was located. Beside his desk with the three telephones that I'd noticed the last time I was there, there now was a smaller desk with a computer. The rest of his office was pretty much as I remembered it. Much of the space in that corner of the warehouse was taken up by that huge safe, not unlike the one Joe had in his back room, securely locked, no doubt.

One other thing was different about Burger's office this time. Today, Mike Fletcher was seated in the plush office-chair behind Burger's desk. There was the "click" of a lock being engaged behind me, and from the corner of my eye, I could see Burger locking the interior door.

Except for the lights above the office area, the warehouse was completely dark. Not even a window was there to allow light into the vast storage area, an area that now appeared almost empty. Looking off into the darkened area, I thought it appeared cavernous, almost sepulchral. I could make out several huge wooden columns that supported the massive beams under the second floor and several heavy steel doors that probably opened into separate storage rooms. That was all.

Well, it had been my plan. Now, we'd see what I could make of what Ken had called a direct frontal assault--and stay alive while I was doing it.
Chapter 15

Mike Fletcher appeared to be about the same age as Jack Burger, middle-aged, that is. His hair was thinning and turning gray, but he appeared robust and exuded a commanding presence. All in all, a man better dressed and much more socially polished than Burger was or could ever hope to be.

"Mr. Wakefield?" he questioned, appraising me with cool dark eyes.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Fletcher? I'm Mel Wakefield."

"Yes. Please be seated." Fletcher made a finger-flicking motion toward a heavy wooden chair in front of the desk.

"Thank you." I noticed that Burger and Winston had taken positions behind me and to either side. Both remained standing. It didn't matter, at least not right now.

"Mr. Wakefield, I've heard a lot about you, and not just from Winston." Fletcher's lips formed a shallow smile. He studied me intently. "Would you like a beer? Or perhaps, something else to drink?"

"No thanks."

"Very well." Fletcher asked Winston to bring him a beer from the refrigerator behind us, a task that Winston performed swiftly and silently. Once Fletcher had the bottle in hand, he popped the cap, took a genteel sip from the bottle, and then turned his attention to me once again.

"We all know why you're here this time, Mr. Wakefield. You didn't come here to chitchat, so I'll dispense with the small talk. You said you found a key in Duboise's things that might belong to us?"

"Yes. It's a key that would fit a large padlock, much too large to fit any padlock an ordinary person would use. I remembered that you use large padlocks in the warehouse here, like those locks over there." I pointed in the general direction of one of the locked doors. "Knowing that Floyd did work for you at some point, I thought maybe he'd had one of your keys in his possession when he was killed."

"And in exchange for this key, you want to know something about Duboise?"

"That's right."

"I told this jerk about Floyd Duboise!" Burger exclaimed angrily. "Duboise was nothin' but a stupid--" He started to move forward, toward me, from where he'd been standing.

"Calm down, Jack, a red face does not become you," Fletcher interrupted. "What you gave Mr. Wakefield was a cock-and-bull story about Duboise, and he knows better. Today, he's askin' for the truth."

Burger shrugged his shoulders, backed away from me, and then sat down. I noticed that his hands were both clenched into tight fists. Here was a man who had to work hard to keep a lid on his temper.

I nodded to Fletcher, trying as best I could to ignore both Burger and Winston. "That's right, all I want is the truth about Floyd's death. I want to know the truth, and I think you know what the truth is."

"Indeed. You asked if Floyd Duboise worked for me. For us? Same difference. Yes, he did. He worked for us. For a short time anyway."

"What kind of work did he do for you?"

"Duboise was a veteran. You know that. You also know that civilian life is pretty tame for a lot of veterans. Take Duboise, for example. Working all day in a sporting goods store selling tents and sleeping bags was pretty wimpy after the things he'd done in the service, especially after some of the things he did in Africa. You know what I'm talking about. Do you follow me?"

"Yes. Floyd was restless with his job. I know that."

"Well, I gave Duboise a chance for some excitement. Some real excitement." Fletcher looked as though he might find some humor in what he had just said.

"Excitement? Like what?"

"Mr. Wakefield, as you know, Jack and I work in the import-export business. We buy and sell things all over the world. Being veterans ourselves, veterans who lived all over the world, I might add, we have the connections to do this expertly. When someone needs something almost anywhere around the world, we do our best to supply that need. Sometimes our work is dangerous, but it's almost always exciting."

"Not to mention, illegal? At least to some extent?"

"Illegal?" Burger guffawed, and Fletcher laughed abruptly.

Fletcher shook his head at my apparent naivety and ignored my question. "We gave Duboise the chance to do some exciting things. For example, he recently accompanied a shipment to Angola and brought back payment for the goods we provided."

Fletcher eyed me coldly. "Now, about that key?"

"Not yet. I want to hear more about Floyd Duboise. What I really want to hear is what he was doing that got him killed."

Again Fletcher ignored my question. "You have the key with you, I presume?"

"It's close by. I'll trade you its location for an answer to my question."

Fletcher stood up and stretched. I glanced around to see what Burger and Winston were doing. Burger had his gun, a 9mm Beretta automatic, in his hand now, but both men seemed to be relaxed and enjoying themselves.

"You say that our business is sometimes illegal. That's true. On that part of our business we make our profit. Let me explain. Suppose, for example, we ship a load of supplies to one of the hundreds of little armies around the globe. What do you think they use by way of payment, a cashier's check?"

"No. Let me make a wild guess. Drugs?"

"Right. Now, you know that your friend Duboise, a man who didn't use drugs, would most likely oppose our drug trafficking--and you'd be right. He didn't like some of the other things we find highly profitable either."

"Such as? Maybe the counterfeiting? Or--"

"Aw, cut the crap, Wakefield, where the hell's the key?" Burger now was getting jittery. When I looked his way, he had the Beretta resting on his lap but pointing in my direction.

"Are you sure it's your key?" I asked.

"Shit, yes--," Burger started to reply, but Fletcher cut in. "Ease off, Jack." He turned back to me. "It's our key, all right. Duboise took a key with him that he shouldn't have taken, but we found out later that he had it. So, yes, we know what key you have, and we know it's ours."

"He took your key. Is that why you killed him?"

"No."

"Then like Burger says, let's cut the crap." I stood up. "Floyd didn't like the idea of selling drugs, or laundering money, or whatever. And guys like Burger don't carry guns because they have to carry business receipts to the bank late at night. My guess is that Floyd crossed you up somehow. He knew too much about your operation so you hit him with a baseball bat, put some drugs in his pockets, took his cash to make it look like a common robbery, and left him in that alley where he was found."

Fletcher sighed. "I've always prided myself in being able to select good employees. Unfortunately, Duboise was not one of them. Duboise was a mistake. As it turned out, a really bad mistake. Not only did he disagree with what we were doing, he went to the police about it.

"Worse than that, actually. At first, I thought he was just skimming some of our imported goods for his own profit. I'd find a few things missing every time he brought in a shipment. That really didn't bother me much. Hell, I can live with skimming, but that wasn't it. He was collecting evidence, evidence that he planned to use against me!"

"Use against you. For what purpose? Blackmail?"

"That's what I thought at first. Then I learned he was going to turn the stuff over to the cops."

"Floyd was working for the police?"

"Sure as hell. The next thing I knew, Duboise came to me with an offer to buy $100,000 worth of cocaine. Said he knew somebody who wanted to make a buy. Fortunately, I checked things out. Know what I found out? He was making the buy for a couple of cops!"

"A sting?"

"Oh, yes. Thay had things all set up. Duboise would take delivery from one of us, probably Winston here, and the cops would video-record the whole thing. But it didn't work. You see, I have friends on the force . . . ." Fletcher's voice trailed off.

"So you killed Floyd?"

"He was a damned mole in my organization so I gave him a pink slip. Now, Mr. Wakefield, you've learned the truth about your friend. The key?"

"The key? Oh, yes. Mr. Fletcher, if you'll tell your hired gun (I motioned in Burger's direction.) that I'm only reaching into my pocket for the key, I'll get it for you."

"Put the gun up, Jack, or point it in some other direction. You make people nervous, pointing that damned thing at them," Fletcher grumbled.

I looked at Burger. He had backed over against the door we'd come through earlier and now was scratching his forehead with the gun barrel. Ignoring Burger for the moment, I slowly reached into my hip pocket, retrieved the key, and placed it on the desk in front of Fletcher.

Mike Fletcher looked from the key to me, then gazed off into the dark recesses of the warehouse for a minute before he spoke. "You know, Mr. Wakefield, that Winston here has absolutely no use for you. He'd rather see you dead than alive. I'm sure you know why. And I'm afraid Jack here sees you in somewhat the same way." Fletcher shrugged his shoulders, picked up the key, and turned it over in his hand. "Me, on the other hand, I kinda like you. I could use a man like you in my business. Pay you twice, maybe three times what you're making now."

I laughed. "The hell with that nonsense."

Burger chuckled. "I told you so," he said.

Fletcher sighed. "I was afraid of that." He nodded at Winston. "He's yours, my friend. We've got what we wanted from him."

Again, from the corner of my eye, I saw Winston lurch forward in my direction. He now had a heavy leather sap in his right hand. Burger watched with an amused smile on his face. He still was scratching his forehead with his gun.

"Gonna get you now, asshole," Winston growled, "pay you back for what you did to me. Pay you back in spades."

I dropped into a defensive position. Then, just as Winston advanced on me with the sap raised high in his hand, there was a tremendous crash of splintering wood--and Ernie smashed through the door directly behind Burger.

Ernie let out one helluva warwhoop as he broke through that door. Both of his fists were joined high in the air and, before Burger could even turn, much less swing his gun, those huge fists slammed down on the top of Burger's head. There was a crunch of fist on bone, and Burger dropped to the floor like a sack of dog food, the gun skittering from his hand and across the floor.

There was a flash of movement near me, and I saw Winston drop the sap and go for a pocket pistol. Before he could raise the gun, though, a sinewy figure materialized from the shadows, and in almost total silence, sprang directly at Winston's back.

Winston's gun cracked, but Ken already had knocked it aside. The round thudded harmlessly into the wooden wall. There was a muffled yell as Ken smacked Winston headfirst into one of the pillars supporting the second floor of the warehouse, then picked him up, and slammed him to the hardwood floor.

I went over the desk after Fletcher, who was on his feet and grabbing inside one of the desk drawers. Just as I reached him, he pulled a Colt .45 from the desk. Before he could use it, though, I kicked the gun out of his hand and hit him with full body-slam force.

Fletcher went back hard against the wall, knocking over the chair in which he'd been seated just seconds earlier. His eyes smoldered with hate as he tried to grab my throat, but I kicked him between the legs, and he crashed to the floor, screaming obscenities.

I followed Fletcher to the floor, rolled him over, found his throat with both hands, and was about to strangle the life out of the bastard who'd killed Flloyd when there was a terrible commotion toward the front of the warehouse. It sounded like a herd of cattle stampeding through the splintered door. Then voices were yelling "Police!" and "Freeze!" and "Drop your guns!" and all the other crap the police yell when they charge into a room.

I was pumped. I'd have killed Fletcher then and there, but two big cops managed to pull me off of him before I became a murderer. In fact, I was so damned pumped that I'd have taken both of them on right then and there if I hadn't been jolted by the feel of a small hand clutching my arm and heard Dana's soothing voice saying, "Take it easy, Big Guy, take it easy. Everything's okay, now."

I sat up, leaned back against Burger's desk, gathered my wits as best I could, and looked around the room. Burger and Winston were out cold. I hoped they both were heavily damaged. Damaged, hell! I hoped they both were dead.

Ernie and Ken were okay. They didn't look like they'd even worked up a sweat. In fact, Ernie had a big grin on his face. He'd enjoyed the action.

Fletcher was sitting up opposite me, his hands now in cuffs, and one of the cops was reading his rights to him. Something in Fletcher's eyes told me he wasn't paying much attention. Maybe he'd heard all the words before. Maybe he wasn't fully conscious.

Fletcher's eyes moved slowly to the side and seemed to focus on something. That's when it hit me. He was watching something or someone behind me. I turned to see what he was following with his eyes: Dana had wandered out into the warehouse, exploring the place, and now was pushing at a heavy steel sliding door that led to a walled-off area in the warehouse.

The door was almost heavier than Dana could push, but she was putting her shoulder to it, and I heard the door creak as she did so. Inch by inch the door was moving, and I suddenly remembered very clearly what Blake had said about booby traps.

Before I could call to Dana, I heard a "snap," and I saw the pin from the hand grenade that was guarding the door fall free. "DANA!" I shouted, "GET AWAY! IT'S GONNA BLOW!"

Fletcher had slumped down, apparently unconscious, but everyone else turned to see what I was shouting about, then dived for cover when they realized what was happening. At the same time, Dana turned to look at me, then looked up and saw the grenade. A look of terror spread across her face--and she froze.

Survival instincts took over. Even as I shouted at her, I was scrambling to my feet. Then I was sprinting toward her. My legs seemed to be moving in slow motion as I lunged for her, racing that grenade's trigger. Then I was grabbing her with both arms, clutching her to me as I ran, trying to put all the distance I could between us and that grenade.

I'd taken two or three giant, sliding steps and was diving for the only cover I could see, one of the columns that supported the second floor of the warehouse, when that damned grenade went off. The sound was deafening in that enclosure, and the concussion from the explosion hurled the two of us to the floor. All the time, I was struggling to turn my body so that we'd land on my shoulder and not Dana's.

Hot metal fragments from the grenade cut into my hip and leg as we went down together--hard. Still other fragments smacked into the wooden column shielding my head and shoulders. My mind went blank and everything went black as I felt blood begin to stream from the wounds.

I came to moments later, aware that Ken was kneeling beside me. He had ripped off his shirt and was using it folded as a compress, trying to slow the flow of blood from a deep wound on my hip. One of the cops who had pulled me off Fletcher was wrapping something around my badly bleeding leg. In what seemed like a dream, I heard Ernie talking on his cell phone, giving directions to an ambulance driver. I couldn't see Dana anywhere.

"Dana? Dana, are you okay? Is Dana okay?" I called over and over, aware that my shouts were coming out as nothing more than whispers.

"I'm okay! Thanks to you!" I finally heard the whispered reply, then realized that Dana was cradling my head on her lap. A tear splashed on my face, and then another. "Sorry, Mel, I'm . . . I'm shook!" Her voice trembled.

I tried to say something to comfort Dana, but my words just came out as a mumble. That's when I lost consciousness altogether.
Chapter 16

The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital, feeling like I'd been run over by a great big truck. Dana was sitting in a chair close by the bed, reading a book.

"Hi, Big Guy," she said, putting the book aside and standing up when she saw my eyes open. "Welcome back!"

She turned toward the door to my room and called out, "Okay, guys, he's back! Right on schedule!"

Right away Ernie and Ken came into the room. So did Sandy and Al and Annie! Al grabbed my good hand, the one Dana also was holding, and clutched both of ours between his. "Good to see you back, Big Guy!" His voice was cheerful. "I got the word from someone 'close to you' that you were expected to be 'coming around' any time now, so we decided to form a welcoming committee."

Annie leaned over me. "Everybody down at the tavern has been asking about you, Mel. Am I ever glad I can tell 'em you're gonna be okay. We all sure have been pulling for you." She put her hands on top of Al's.

"Oh, what the heck! Dana, turn your back a minute," Annie commanded, as she gave me a big kiss on my forehead. Everybody crowded around then, wishing me well and piling their hands on ours. I couldn't help noticing a few wayward tears on some cheeks, and I felt truly lucky at having so many good friends.

"We'll leave you alone now, Big Guy. Get some rest, and let us know if you need anything. Dana, I hold you responsible for seeing that he does," Al said. With those parting words and many "Take cares," my visitors filed out of the room, leaving Dana alone with me.

"I love you, Mel, honey," Dana whispered. "I really, really do!" She squeezed my hand.

"I love you, too," I managed to whisper back. I tried to squeeze her hand, but my hand wasn't cooperating very well with my heart and mind. There were a bunch of questions floating around in my mind, too, but I drifted back to semi-sleep before I could ask them.

It wasn't long, though, before I woke up again. Dana was still there. No one else was in the room so I asked the question that was uppermost in my mind. I asked her if she really was all right, and she said she was. Bruised a little here and there, but all right--and glad to be alive--and so glad I was going to be all right.

I was beginning to remember the questions I wanted to ask. "How'd you guys find us at Burger's warehouse?" I wanted to know.

"We've had a wiretap on Fletcher's phone for months. When we overheard you call him about that key, we alerted fast. It wasn't hard to tail you in that big, luxurious-looking car of Burger's to the warehouse. Once there, we rigged up a portable directional mike that let us listen in on what was being said."

"So you overheard everything?"

"Yep. Recorded the entire conversation, too. Our mike didn't pick up things quite as well as Ernie's set-up did, but he gave us a copy of the audio recording from the recorder in his car. That transmitter in your boot really came through. You guys thought of everything, didn't you?"

"Tried to. Did your task force get anything you could use?"

"Sure did. Ernie and Ken filled us in on the key and lock situation, and some of our guys have already been to Floyd Duboise's storage unit. Cleaned it out." All of a sudden, Dana clutched my arm. "Whew! Mel, I was so scared for you! I'm still shaky, thinking about what you did."

"Scared? For me? When?"

"When you were in Burger's warehouse with those three thugs, talking about Floyd Duboise. I knew they'd never let you out of there alive, not after they'd actually told you they killed him. Oh, by that time we'd called the police, and they were listening in on you with us. In fact, some of 'em were gung-ho to break in and try to rescue you, but I figured if they did Burger'd kill you on the spot before they could stop 'em. When we saw Ernie go in, I told the cops who were there with us to let you guys handle things. They listened to me, thank goodness. By the way, how on earth did Ken ever get inside that warehouse without us seeing him?"

"You'll have to ask him." I managed a grin, thinking about Ken taking out Winston. "He worked it out. But I'll tell you, Dana, no lock ever kept Ken in or out of anywhere. He learned how locks work in the service. He's real small, moves silently, and has had plenty of experience slithering through dark places. My guess is he came in a back door and worked his way though the warehouse. It was pretty dark in the back, you know, and he was wearing dark clothing."

Dana nodded. "You saved my life, Mel. I thanked you once, but I don't think you heard me so I'll thank you again. When I looked up, I saw that . . . well, I knew what was going to happen but I was so terrified that I just froze. I never could have moved back from that door, even though I knew my life depended on my moving away--and fast."

This time I could squeeze Dana's hand. "You're welcome, honey." It was a lame thing to say but all I could think of at that time.

"Do you remember anything about our ride to the hospital? Do you remember how I rode to the hospital with you in the ambulance?"

"No."

Dana grinned. "The medics weren't happy about it, but I told 'em you were hurt 'cause of me, 'cause you'd saved my life, and they let me ride with you, just to keep me quiet, I think. Ernie and Ken followed in their cars. We had quite a procession there!"

"What happened to Burger and Fletcher and their gorilla, Winston?"

"Well, I understand Burger's in real bad shape. Ernie darn near killed him, but he's in a hospital--not this one--probably recovering. Winston's in jail with a very sore head and a few Band-Aids on him. His bond hearing is set for day after tomorrow."

"What about Fletcher?"

"Fletcher wasn't as lucky as the other two. Fletcher's dead."

"Dead! Really?"

"Yep."

"How'd that happen? I didn't kill him, did I?"

"Nope. When that grenade exploded, it blew out a chunk of the steel door frame it was attached to. That fragment hit Fletcher right between his eyes, just like an arrow--darned near ripped the top of his head off, and killed him on the spot!" Poetic justice, wouldn't you say?"

"Yup. Can't say I'm sorry to hear it either, not after what he did to Floyd. Anybody else get hurt?"

"No. Everybody dove for cover when you yelled at me. Everybody but Fletcher. Seems Fletcher'd picked a very bad time to pass out, right before that grenade went off. At least that's what the cops told me. Seems he was real groggy from the pummeling you'd given him and lost consciousness right about when you started hollering at me, couldn't duck for cover the way everyone else did. And it all happened too fast for anyone to drag him out of harm's way."

Even with Ken's and that young cop's attention after I got hit, I'd lost a lot of blood when the grenade fragments sliced me up. The doctors had patched me up, though, and said I'd be able to go home in a few days. Dana promised she was staying with me every minute I was in the hospital and that she might not ever let me out of her sight again once I was out. Could be I'm getting old and soft, but I appreciated her being there and hoped she'd keep that promise.

Second day I was in the hospital, I had a visitor. It was mid-morning when I heard a nurse ask Dana if I was awake and Dana replied that I was almost there. Moments later, a strange woman was standing by my bedside.

Through half-opened eyes, I could see a pretty, heart-shaped face framed in dark brown hair. Wearing eyeglasses. For some reason, that impressed me. She was tall for a woman, standing maybe 5'-10" and, from where I was lying she seemed beautifully proportioned. Curvy, slender, sexy. Maybe a little older than Dana? I thought to myself that I must be getting better if girls were starting to look good to me again.

"Mr. Wakefield?"

"Yes."

"I'm Rene Forrester, Police Department Internal Affairs." She was carrying her badge in her hand, opened it, let me look at it. It said she was who she said she was. So much for the formalities.

There wasn't a wedding ring on her hand. Of course, I notice such things! I noticed, too, that she was smiling, showing beautiful, even, white teeth, and the big brown eyes behind those glasses were twinkling. Maybe she wasn't the sour, hard-nosed type of officer I usually associate with Internal Affairs Departments. At least, I hoped she wasn't.

I like to tease girls who smile at me, even police officers. "Miss Forrester," I replied, as mock-solemnly as I could, "I swear I didn't do it, Officer. Honest!"

Miss Forrester grinned and fell in with the game. "Aw, shucks!" she exclaimed in mock surprise. "And you were my prime suspect. Guess I'll have to scratch you off my list, since you say you're innocent, Mr. Wakefield."

"Friends call me Mel. Or Big Guy. If you're my friend, Officer--"

"My friends call me Rene," she interrupted. The smile was still on her face. "Okay, Mel?"

"Okay, Rene?"

Rene pulled up a chair and sat beside me. "I've been hearing about you. You got yourself quite a reputation in the police department, and not just lately. I just had to see you for myself," she began.

I laughed, even though it made all of me hurt all over again. "Ain't a heckuva lot to look at, not right now, anyway."

"I want your help, Mel." Rene was serious now.

"Whatever I can do, ask."

"I listened to the recording made while you were talking with Fletcher and his thugs. You recall Fletcher saying that he had friends on the force? It was in connection with his discovery that Floyd Duboise was working with the police to gather evidence against him."

"Yup."

"As you can guess, that statement concerns Internal Affairs. To make it more personal, that statement concerns me as a police officer."

"I'm sure it does."

"So, question number one: Do you have any idea who Fletcher was referring to as his 'friends' on the force? Or, for that matter, and this is question number two, who Floyd Duboise was working with on the force?"

I thought for a long moment. "Question one: no, not really. Maybe we can find out. Let me think about that. Question two: I might be able to help you there."

Rene had her notebook out, her pen in hand, and was looking at me intently. "Okay. Help me."

I told her what Sandy had said about the visit she'd had from two policemen right after her brother was murdered.

"Aron and English." Rene thought for a long moment. "I've encountered their names before, and I'll talk with Sandy Duboise." She wrote things hastily in her notebook. "What else?"

"According to what these two cops, Aron and English, told Sandy, Floyd had a briefcase with $100,000 that they had provided him. It had something to do with an undercover operation. The cops told Sandy that Floyd was going to 'make a buy' or something like that. Better check that with Sandy. Anyway, Aron and English told her that the briefcase and the $100,000 were missing. Somewhere out there, then, is a briefcase with $100,000 in it, assuming, of course, it ever existed in the first place."

"That whole story is something I'm going to have to check out. Any ideas about who might have got the money? Or what might have happened to it?"

"Not yet," I told her. "We looked over Floyd's hotel room pretty carefully, and to my knowledge it wasn't in his storage unit. Bottom line is I don't know what happened to it. Of course, the police have his car, and they searched his room before I had a chance at it. The briefcase could have been in either place."

"I'll find out what happened to it." Rene said it as a simple statement of fact in a tone of voice that made me believe her. She had the attitude of a good investigator. I was glad she wasn't on my trail.

Rene had started me thinking, though. "Let's go back to question number one, Rene. I know some guys who worked for Burger. They might be able to help. Problem is, they're really scared of Burger, so they're reluctant to talk. They're afraid of what he'll do to them if he finds out they talked to me. Both he and Winston are still out there, you know, and both men are unremorseful killers."

Rene looked up from her notebook. "I understand, but we're gonna do our best to keep those two locked up. Now, when are you gonna be up to introducing me to these friends of yours who worked for Burger? Shall we try for tomorrow?"

Dana had been pretending to read a newspaper, pretending not to listen. Looking past Rene, I saw Dana quickly lower the newspaper. Her eyes swept from me to Rene. "Not tomorrow, Rene! For heaven's sake, Mel needs a little rest."

Rene's eyes twinkled. "Got yourself a good caretaker, huh, Mel?"

"Don't I know it. Give me a day or so, okay? I'll call you as soon as they release me."

"Okay." Rene started to get up, then said, "Oh, I've got something here for you." She showed me her card, pointed out her telephone number, and laid it on the table by my bed. After thanking me, she said she'd be back to see me and stood up.

As she was standing there, our eyes met. Her eyes were dancing with pleasure, and she had the hint of a smile on her face. She said goodby to Dana and turned to go, then suddenly turned back to me, her eyes still dancing. "One more question, Mel. Are you married?"

I heard Dana's feet hit the floor. "Get outta here, Rene! He's mine!" she exclaimed. "All mine," she added, "'cause I saw him first!"

Rene laughed and turned toward Dana. "I thought as much. Just checking."

Once again, she turned her attention back to me. "If Dana doesn't treat you right, Mel, you call me, ya hear?" Then she was gone, leaving me with something new to look forward to--finding who Fletcher's "friends on the force" really were.
Chapter 17

My hip and leg had been cut up bad by the grenade fragments, and the shoulder I'd landed on was deeply bruised. I must have hit my head pretty hard on something, too. Even though I didn't remember that, I had a big, purple bruise to prove it. All in all, though, I was in pretty good shape for the shape I was in. At least, I was still alive--unlike Fletcher--and I had to admit that having Dana around was absolutely the best therapy available.

When the doctor who patched me up said I'd do all right at home after another night in the hospital, he showed Dana how to change my bandages and told me to come back in a week to let him remove some stitches and look me over. Next afternoon, Al drove over, and he and Dana took me home in his old station wagon, not the fanciest vehicle on the road but with plenty of room for me to stretch my leg out.

Dana's boss was relentlessly pressuring his staff to continue and intensify the investigation into all of the people Burger and Fletcher had done business with. He repeatedly called Dana to say that she'd better get back to the nighttime surveillance routine--"or else."

"I hate being away from you, but it'll only be for two or three more nights," she assured me as she left that evening, "and I'll be back to take care of you in the morning." I could see through her faked attempts at smiling. She wasn't happy about leaving me any more than I was happy to see her go.

Annie came up to my room to check on me every hour. Dana must have asked her to. I'm sure she'd never have intruded upon our private place otherwise. Mostly, I was asleep when she came up, and she told me later that she'd just cracked the door to make sure I didn't need anything, then gone back downstairs. Along about ten o'clock, though, I heard her soft footsteps coming up the stairs. I was wide awake by that time so when she opened the door, I asked her to come in.

We visited a few minutes, mostly about how I was feeling and how things were going downstairs without me. She told me that Landon, the other bouncer, seemed to have everything under control. "Lanny," as she called him, is young but as diplomatic as he is tough. In a place like Al's Tavern, one of those characteristics is every bit as important as the other. I knew Landon could handle anything that came up. Besides, the girls all think he's great! They're not going to give him any trouble, and they'll see to it that the guys don't either--or else.

Before she left, I asked Annie to help me find Rene Forrester's card. She found it tucked into the pocket of my shirt, the one I'd worn home from the hospital, and brought it to me, teasing me about another "new woman" in my life and asking me if Dana knew what I was "up to."

On her way out, Annie remembered to tell me that Sandy had called about me while I'd been sleeping. Said she'd called on the tavern's phone in case I was asleep.

As soon as Annie went back downstairs, I dialed Sandy's number. Sandy wanted to know right away how I was and told me again how terribly sorry she was I got hurt. "I . . . I . . . well . . . I feel responsible," she blurted out. I assured her that I didn't feel she was in any way responsible for my getting hurt, and then she got down to other things that were weighing on her mind.

"I made arrangements today for the mortuary to bury Floyd in a VA cemetery," she told me, then went on to say that she was selling Floyd's car as soon as she could. She even thought she might have a buyer for it already, an older woman she knew where she worked. That would be great, she said, because then she wouldn't have to advertise it and talk to all kinds of strangers about it.

Sandy said she was worried over what I'd think of her for selling her brother's car. "Maybe it's wrong of me to sell it, Mel," she sighed, "but . . . well, I just can't keep it. Parking would be a real problem where I live, especially for a big car like Floyd's. Maybe I'd keep it if it were a small car, but, even then, every time I'd look at it I'd think about Floyd, and--"

"Sandy, Sandy," I interrupted her. "You don't have to apologize; you don't even have to explain to me or anyone else why you want to sell Floyd's car. It's yours now, and Floyd would want you to do whatever you want to do with it."

I'm not sure I convinced Sandy that she didn't have to worry so much about what other people would think of her and what she did, but she did change the subject. "Now I've just got to know the truth from you about something. Okay?"

"Okay. What's that?"

"Was my brother actually working with that bunch of criminals?"

"You mean Jack Burger and Mike Fletcher?"

"Yes."

I told her the truth as I saw it: "He was working with them, but he wasn't one of them, and he was trying to gather evidence that would shut them down."

"Then . . . Then I can still be . . . proud of him."

"Your brother was a good man. You sure can be proud of him, Sandy," I told her. "You sure can." I meant it.

"Thank you." Sandy sighed as though that weight, at least, had been lifted from her. "I needed to hear that."

"Sandy?"

"Yes?"

"It must have been a hard day for you, what with having to make arrangements for Floyd's funeral. You shouldn't have to be alone at a time like this. Where are you, anyway?"

"I'm . . . I'm home in my apartment, and I . . . I am alone. It's okay, though. I . . . I could have stayed at Ernie's again. He wanted me to, and it's a great place to stay. I had my own bedroom and bathroom there even, but . . . . Well, I wanted to be along tonight. Wanted to think about my brother and the good times we shared when we were able to be together. In many ways, he was the closest thing to a father I ever had, and I was real lucky to have had him."

"Sounds to me as though you might not have had the easiest childhood, Sandy, especially in view of a couple of things Floyd told me a long time ago."

I thought for awhile that Sandy wasn't going to respond to my comment in any way, but after a lengthy pause she replied, "Well, I've never thought of it that way. I've always figured that it was just plain too easy. You may be right, I don't know. Either way, it wasn't much fun."

There was another long pause. I wanted to pursue the subject of Sandy's childhood more, but I was just too tired to think clearly, and she didn't seem to want to volunteer anything more on her own just then, so I asked, "Sure you're okay?"

"I'm okay. Ernie said he'd be by late tonight when he gets done driving his taxi. Said he'd check up on me. I . . . I really like that," she added.

"Good. You let Ernie take good care of you, ya hear?"

Sandy thanked me again for my concern. And just when I thought she had finished talking, she started thanking me all over again, this time for having solved Floyd's murder.

I told Sandy I was all talked out, and she apologized again--I guess it wouldn't have been Sandy if she hadn't gotten in at least one more apology. But I made it clear that I wanted to get together with her and talk about several things that weren't suited for telephone conversations. She said she'd look forward to that.

Then Sandy told me Annie had invited her to come over to Al's Tavern the following night and afterward spend the rest of the night with her at her apartment. "Annie's been wonderful to me, and I'm really looking forward to that. And, did you know she has a little boy that she's raising all on her own? Kevin, she calls him?" she exclaimed.

I told Sandy that I did, indeed, and that I had met Kevin several times. "Annie's brought him to visit Al and me different times when the tavern has been closed. He's a neat little guy."

"I could tell that from the picture Annie showed me," Sandy bubbled, "and I'm really looking forward to meeting him!" Hearing Sandy say that made me feel good inside. Like I said before, in my book, Annie's an angel. She'd be good for Sandy.

After I ate the ham sandwich Annie had come back with while I was talking to Sandy, I rested awhile before I called Rene Forrester and asked if she was more than ready to go out and meet some friends of mine the next day. She said that she was ready if I was sure I was. I explained that I was stiff and sore and oozing blood but that I could move enough to get around, so we'd better get on with it. We made arrangements for her to pick me up the next afternoon.

The following morning, when Dana got "home," as she now was calling my room, she found Rene's card where I'd accidentally dropped it on the floor beside my bed. After feigning a fit of jealousy that left us both laughing more than was good for me in my condition, she guessed right away that I'd called Rene and was greatly annoyed, to put it mildly, that I would be going out of the room that afternoon. I assured her that I'd be back before she went to what she hoped would be her final night of surveillance work.

When it was time for me to get up and get going, Dana was still sleeping as close to me as she could get, but I managed to get up and get dressed without waking her. I wrote a note that said "I love you, Dana" and put it on my pillow so she'd find it when she woke up. Then I went downstairs to meet Rene.

Everything about me hurt--my shoulder, my legs, my head, and most of all, my hip. To top it off, I got dizzy and had to hang on to the railing when I tried to walk down the stairs at my usual fast pace, a good indication that Dana was right: I was rushing things. Even Rene was hesitant about my going with her when she saw me limping along, but I insisted that I had to start moving around sometime.

I didn't know if Tex would run when he saw me coming again, but I decided we'd start by trying to talk to him. Rene drove as slowly as practical in order to make the ride as smooth as possible for me. Twenty minutes later, she was parking in front of The Four Aces.

The last time I was at The Four Aces, there were half a dozen Harley's parked out front. Today, there were twenty or maybe thirty. The noise generated by those bikers spilled out into the parking lot as we approached the front door. A haze of sweet-smelling smoke greeted us on the inside. One thing I knew for sure, those bikers would not welcome a policewoman in their midst--and they'd make Rene as a cop right away.
Chapter 18

The bikers were really whooping it up inside The Four Aces when we walked in, but one of them spotted us, and I heard the whispered word "Cops!" go 'round and 'round and 'round the room. Everything got quiet, and a host of hard, knowing eyes followed us, most of them studying Rene with obvious hatred. Given a chance, they'd beat her to a pulp and dump her body in a ditch somewhere, just to show their contempt for cops, especially female cops.

Rene had tremendous cool. She walked beside me, head up and shoulders back, right through that crowd of scowling bikers and to the back of the bar where I'd found Tex the last time I was at The Four Aces.

Tex was playing pool with two other guys when he saw us. I thought he was going to bolt for the back door but he didn't. He just looked us over slowly, raising one bushy eyebrow when his eyes stopped on me. I motioned to him, and he left the game reluctantly, shaking his head as he approached us. "Good God!" he exclaimed as he looked me over, "You look like hell! What happened?"

"Had a little accident."

"I'll bet you did! Winston do this to you, Mel?"

"No. Tex, we need to talk to you," I told him. Tex looked like he was going to die right then and there. "Now," I added.

Rene introduced herself, but didn't identify herself as an investigator with Internal Affairs or as a policewoman. She repeated my statement, "We do need to talk to you."

Tex immediately made her for a cop. "Am I under arrest?"

"No. We're just going to have a friendly talk."

Tex sighed "You guys are so friendly you're gonna get me killed," he moaned.

"I hope not," Rene replied, "but maybe you can help us make sure that neither you nor anyone else gets killed."

Tex led us to a table at the back of the room, shaking his head from side to side all the way. "Okay, it's just my life," he muttered, a resigned look on his face. He lowered himself into a chair like a thoroughly beaten man, and I noticed he'd positioned himself with his back to the wall.

"Mr. Wakefield tells me you once worked for Mr. Mike Fletcher and Mr. Jack Burger," Rene began, slipping into a seat across the table from Tex.

Tex ignored her question and looked her straight in the eyes. "Are you taping this?"

"No. Now back to my question: Did you?"

Tex nodded his head in the affirmative. My guess was that he didn't trust Rene to be telling the truth about not recording what he said and was going to say as little as possible.

"Mr. Fletcher has said that he has friends on the police force. Do you have any idea of what he meant by that?"

Tex looked sick. "Oh, God, you're into that!" he moaned. "Why can't you just let well enough alone? You really are going to get us all killed, Mel, me, you, an' all of us!"

"Well?" Rene waited for Tex to calm down a little. "Tex?"

"Okay, okay, I hear you. There were two guys that I saw around Burger's warehouse that I'm pretty sure were cops. Whether or not they were friends of Fletcher's or how good a friends they were, I can't really say."

"What were their names?"

"If I tell you their names and they find out, they'll more than kill me. They'll torture me and then kill me!" Tex hung his head. Rene waited again. Tex worried one of the buttons on his shirt. Twisted it hard, right and left. I figured he'd pull it off any minute.

"Okay. Okay. You win." Tex took a deep breath, let go of the button, then muttered so low I could barely hear him, "Their names were Aron and English."

Rene didn't let up. "Did these two men, Aron and English, do any special favors for Fletcher or Burger that you know of?"

"I don't know of any specific favors they did. No. They were just around every now and then, sort of like they were looking things over. They'd mostly drink beer with Fletcher and Burger. Drink beer and talk. They must have joked a lot, too. Anyway, there was always a lot of loud laughter when they were around. Not that I ever heard Fletcher laugh, but Burger laughed a lot."

"They drank beer with Fletcher and Burger?"

"Yeah. See, Burger kept a refrigerator in his office filled with beer and . . . ." Tex's voice trailed off.

"Okay. We know about the refrigerator." Rene drew Tex back to the things we wanted to learn about. "What did the four of them talk about?"

"I never overheard anything specific. They drank beer and joked, but I wasn't close enough to them that I overheard anything I could tell you about."

"Just the two cops, Aron and English? No others that you know of?"

Tex sighed. "Those two are the only ones I ever saw around Burger's office, the only ones I made as cops." His eyes darted around the room like those of a frightened animal before turning to me. "I can't tell you anything else. I really can't." He turned to me. "Why don't you just leave me alone, Mel? You're gonna get me killed. I just signed my own death warrant by talking to the two of you. You're gonna get us all killed, and I . . . I don't . . . I don't wantta die yet."

I turned to Rene. "Got enough?"

"Yes, for now. Thank you, Tex." We got up. It was hard leaving Tex seated there as he was, consumed by his own fright. He put his head down on his arms on the table as we left, and I could see his shoulders shaking.

As we left The Four Aces, everyone there just stared right through us like we weren't even there in contrast to all the attention we'd gotten when we came in. Even the bartender turned away as we walked by the bar.

After we were outside, I told Rene about Blake. We stopped at the liquor store around the corner from the homeless shelter where he lived, and Rene bought a small bottle of Jack Daniel's as a gift for him.

Blake wasn't outside in his wheelchair by the sidewalk bench where I'd talked to him a few days before so we went on inside the shelter. We were greeted by an older man who introduced himself as Bill Kubble. He explained that Blake had become ill during the night and hadn't been able to spend the afternoon outside like he usually did. "I think he's awake now, though. Want to see him?" he asked. We said we did.

"Great." Kubble seemed pleased to see us. "You really perked Blake up when you came to visit him before." His last comment was directed at me. He smiled and added, "Of course, your little present might have had something to do with that, too."

I could feel the color start to rise in my face, but before I could respond in any way, Kubble turned away and went to check on Blake to see if he was still awake. Not only was Blake awake, but he was sitting on the edge of his bed, so Kubble got him into his wheelchair. He motioned for us to follow as he pushed Blake into one of the small rooms reserved for visitors. "Howyadoin, Mel?" Blake greeted me. He seemed even more frail today than he had just a few days earlier.

"Fine, Blake, just fine."

"Well, you sure don't look fine. You look worse off than I am."

I ignored Blake's comment about my appearance and got right to the reason for our visit. "I brought you a visitor. We wantta talk to you."

Blake eyed Rene through his watery eyes. Looked her over. "Pretty lady. You're a cop, aren't you?"

Rene introduced herself. This time she identified herself as being with Internal Affairs.

"Brought you a little present, Blake." I handed him the bottle of whisky.

"Damned nice of ya." Blake took the bottle. Studied it for a long moment. "They took the one you gave me the other day. Hell, it was mostly gone by the time they found it, anyway." He grinned and twisted at the cap with fingers too weak to open it.

"Want me to open it?"

"Ya."

I opened the bottle for him. He took a sip, then turned toward Rene. "Internal Affairs, huh?"

"Yes."

Blake slapped at his knee and gave us that lopsided grin. "Oooohhhhh, God. Somebody's in for it with the likes of you and Mel on their tail." Blake took another sip of the whiskey. "Damn, that's good!" he turned back toward Rene. "Bet it's something about Jack Burger."

"Yes." Rene pulled her chair closer to Blake. "You worked for him, didn't you?"

"For Mike Fletcher. Same thing."

"Did you ever get the impression that either of them had contacts within the police department?"

Blake studied Rene. "So you're lookin' for the dirty cops, huh? I mightta known."

Rene didn't say anything, just waited patiently for Blake to go on.

"Like I told Mel when he was here last time, if Fletcher or Burger knew I was talkin' to ya, they'd kill me, no doubt about it." Blake coughed hard, then took another sip of the whiskey. "Guess it don't make any difference now. The docs say I only got a little while anyway, and staying alive is less appealing with every damned day."

Blake handed me the bottle while he swiped at his chin where he'd spilled some of the liquid. "Anything you can tell us will help," I encouraged him.

"I know, Mel. I know. I'm thinkin'. Sure, Burger and Fletcher had friends who were cops." Blake sat silent, thinking, maybe wondering if he should continue. I handed him the bottle.

"Do you remember their names?" Rene asked.

"Sure I remember their names. I ain't senile yet." Blake grinned a little, but he clearly was agitated. His hands were shaking so that he could hardly hold onto the bottle. Finally, he pushed it toward me, and I took it from him.

"There was one guy named Aron, Jack Aron. Same first name as Burger. He was in there visiting Burger or Fletcher at least once a week while I was there. Drank a lot of beer with 'em."

"Jack Aron." Rene repeated the name. "Who's the other one?"

"Oh, shit!" Blake moaned the words. "The other guy's name was English. Bill English. Between those two guys, they drank up an awful lot of Fletcher's beer."

"Any others that you know of?"

"No. Like I told Mel, I didn't actually work for Fletcher very long. Took a trip or two for him, and then this damned cancer got me. Used to spend some time in his warehouse, though, doing odd jobs. Like I told Mel, Mike Fletcher was nice to me even when I couldn't do much for him. See, I was sick and I didn't have a home or anything, and he was good to me. That's why I hate to give away his secrets. Still, I sure wasn't proud of what those guys did. Wish I'd had the guts to do something about it back then."

"Did either Jack Aron or Bill English actually do any favors, any illegal favors, that is, for Fletcher that you know of?"

Blake looked from me to Rene. "You know what Fletcher was doin'. He was runnin' arms, smuggling, counterfeiting, dealin' drugs, all that. He couldn't have gotten along nearly so well without help. To my way of thinkin', he had plenty of help, too, the wrong kind of help now that I look back at it."

"What kind of help?"

"I can't prove what I'm about to tell you, okay?"

"Okay," Rene responded. "Don't worry about proof."

"The most help those two cops gave Fletcher was with his selling drugs. See, Fletcher got paid off in drugs by some of the people he sold arms to. People in Africa or Asia who bought high-dollar stuff from Fletcher couldn't pay him in cash, so they paid him off in drugs, cocaine and heroin mostly, at a fraction of their street value. The two cops arranged for major sales of the drugs, and they made sure the rest of the cops were looking somewhere else when those sales went down."

"How'd you know that?" I asked.

"I overheard 'em talkin' 'bout what they'd done. Laughin' about how they'd done it, about how the two of 'em were practically controlling the city's drug traffic. Always laughin' like it was all a big joke to them. Fletcher paid 'em off well, too, mostly with crisp, new $50 bills, like he did me. Like I told Mel, that was Fletcher's trademark, payin' people off with crisp, new $50 bills."

"Anything else Aron and English did for Fletcher?" Rene wanted to know.

"They made sure nobody important was looking when some of Fletcher's suppliers brought shipments to his warehouse."

"Shipments of?" Rene prodded.

"Who knows? Probably a little bit of anything and everything that could make 'em big bucks. I saw 'em unloading crates of stuff that must have been smuggled into the United States. I also saw 'em truck out stuff."

Blake took a couple of deep, painful breaths before he went on. "There never were any other cops around that I saw. Customs down in Miami and some place on the West Coast got paid off to look the other way when Fletcher's shipments went through, too. Aron and English helped with those payoffs. I overheard 'em talkin' about that, too."

A wicked little smile flitted across Rene's face, and she leaned close to Blake. "Customs? United States Customs agents were paid off?" she asked.

"Sure. It was easy enough, to hear them tell it. They paid off some local Customs agent, and he took care of the guys on both coasts as well as those in the local airports. Like I said, paid 'em off to look the other way."

"Some local United States Customs agents were taking bribes?" Rene looked like the cat that swallowed the canary, a big, fat canary.

"Hell, Fletcher bribed anybody who could help him, and he paid 'em well. See, Fletcher was making a fortune off the arms shipments and the counterfeiting and the drugs. A bribe was just another business expense to him. He could afford it. He could even afford to be generous if it served his purpose."

"Do you have any idea as to the name of the local Customs agent Fletcher worked with?"

"No." Blake shook his head. Thought a moment. "I may have heard him referred to as Bart, but I can't be sure. And I only heard that name mentioned once or twice. Somethin' like when Fletcher asked one of the cops to take somethin' to Bart, an' that somethin' would have been a briefcase or a bag of some kind, likely filled with cash."

Rene made more notes in her notebook. She looked pleased as could be with what Blake was telling her.

Blake sat silently, then, his head tilted back against the wheelchair's headrest. He had calmed some, but his hands were still shaky. When he raised the bottle of whiskey to his lips, he spilled most of the mouthful down his chin, then swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Damned cancer," he grumbled.

It looked as if Blake was about through talking. Rene wrote some things in her notebook, then closed it. "You've really helped us a lot, Blake," she said.

"I'll tell ya something else. Might interest you, your being from Internal Affairs." He looked from side to side, checking to see who might be within hearing. "I think one of those cops, the one named Aron, killed a man for Fletcher."

"Killed a man?" Rene's eyes flashed as she looked at me.

"Yeah. Tell ya how it was. One day Fletcher showed me two slugs. Bullets, you know. They were .45s, all mashed up like they'd hit something pretty solid. Looked like they had blood stains on 'em, too. Said somebody had dug 'em out of a dead guy so the cops couldn't find 'em and run checks on the bullets, couldn't trace the bullets. It was just a few days later when I heard Aron talking about the cops finding a dead man way the hell out on the north bank of the river. I think he was lettin' Fletcher know by giving him those bullets that he'd done it, that the man was really dead."

"And you think Aron killed him?"

"Pretty sure of it, the way the talk was going. Fletcher sure paid Aron off for something about two days later. Paid him big money, too. I'm sure of that because I saw an open briefcase on Fletcher's desk, and that briefcase was stuffed with cash. Row on row of what looked to me like $50 bills. Later on, I saw Aron walk out of the warehouse with that briefcase. I checked the papers for the next few days to see what I could find about any local murders that might match the one they were talking about, and I found the one I thought Aron probably did for Fletcher. I read about that case off and on for months, but I don't think the cops ever solved it."

Rene was taking even more notes. "About when was this murder, Blake? Do you remember?"

Blake was silent. "Let me think. It was just about the time I learned I had cancer. That was about six years ago. Maybe five. I've kinda lost track of time these past few years. I remember it was in the spring, though, 'cause the flowers were just opening up. I always liked the spring." He closed his eyes and smiled a little.

Blake was tired. I had seen it in his eyes before he closed them. When I looked at Rene, I saw that she also knew it was time to leave. Besides, I was pretty sure that Blake had given us about all the information he had, and I now knew exactly what to do with those two .45 slugs we'd found in Floyd's possessions.

Both Rene and I started to stand up. Just then, Blake motioned for us to stay put. He turned to Rene. "You got yourself quite a guy here." He gestured toward me.

"I know that."

"He was one helluva cop in the service. A helluva 'vestigator. Did you know that?"

"I've heard that. Yes."

"Whatever you've heard is probably true." Blake now was on a roll, the words tumbling out. "Pretty lady, let me tell you a story about Mel. I could tell ya a bunch, but we'll save the rest for another day."

"Okay."

"He's fearless," Blake began, "absolutely fearless. Once Mel gets on a case, he pursues it regardless of the consequences. Didya know he even took down a general one time?"

"No. Tell me about it."

"Okay. Mel and I were stationed together awhile in Alaska. Got to be good friends. Well, there was a girl named Lisa who worked on the base in an office in the building where I was. She was a civilian. Lived off the base in a town nearby and drove out every day. Everybody liked Lisa. Always happy, bubbly personality. Greeted everybody with a smile."

I was almost wishing Blake would get too tired to go on, but he was warming to the story now: "One afternoon, it was snowing heavy when Lisa left work. She was walking 'cross a parking lot toward her car when another car came by and hit her. Knocked her off her feet, and she fell against another one. Hit her head and got hurt real bad. It was dark outside so nobody saw what happened.

"Mel, he was patrolling. He found her and called for an ambulance, but she died on the way to the hospital.

"People said it must have been an accident, that she slipped on the ice and fell. Mel said it didn't look like that to him, that it looked like a hit-and-run. The doctors agreed with Mel.

"So Mel, he took it upon himself to find out what really happened. He had only one clue. That was a metal button-like thing on the girl's purse, and when the car hit her, that button scraped off a little paint. The lab identified that paint as a General Motors color and told Mel what years it was used.

"Mel got the car registrations for the cars on the base and checked every one of them that matched those years and color, but he didn't find one with a scratch like that button would have made. So he checked the body shops and the car dealers in town. One after another. Worked at that night and day, and whatdaya know? He found a Cadillac with that paint and a tiny scratch on the front fender sitting on the Cadillac dealer's lot.

"Mel traced the paperwork and found that car had belonged to a general on the base. The general claimed he'd traded the car two weeks before Lisa was killed, but the date on the dealer's paperwork showed the general had traded the car the day after Lisa was killed.

"There was a helluva stink, but Mel got his man. The really bad thing about it bein' a hit-and-run was that the docs said they probably coulda saved Lisa's life if the guy who hit her woulda stopped and called an ambulance right away. Let me tell ya, that general's career slid right down the drain." Blake grinned his lopsided grin.

"Thanks, Blake," Rene squeezed his arm.

"That's why I told ya you got a damned good man workin' with you. I'd hate like hell to have him on my tail! You either!"

We thanked Blake for his help. He thanked us for the whiskey. "You can come back again, Mel," he grinned, "if you bring this pretty lady with you. Don't even have to bring another bottle if you bring her. She makes a lot better lookin' company than you do."

Rene beamed at him. "He'll just do that," she said.

Once we were back in Rene's car, I told her about the two .45 slugs, where we'd found them, and where they were. She asked if we could pick them up yet that afternoon so I called Joe and told him we'd be by.

Rene waited in her car while I went into the newsstand. Joe took me to his back room and opened the safe. A few minutes later, those two slugs were in Rene's safekeeping. And she now had the names of two cops who worked for Burger and Fletcher, as well as a lead on a Customs agent who worked for them.

* * * * *

To be honest, the afternoon's activities had tired me out much more than I'd expected. My pain pills were wearing off, my head was aching, and my leg was starting to throb. Maybe I should have called it a day and gone home to bed, but when Rene asked if I'd like to get something to eat with her before I went back to the tavern, it was an offer I really couldn't refuse. Food really hit the spot, too, and by the time we pulled into the parking lot at Al's Tavern, I was feeling much better. Then, just as Rene was parking, my telephone chirped--and my day went straight to hell.
Chapter 19

"Hello?"

"Hey, asshole." I recognized Winston's surly voice.

"Whatdaya want, Winston?"

"I've got something I'll bet you want," he growled.

"Like what?"

"Like about 5'-4" with strawberry blonde hair."

Of course, he had to be talking about Dana. My blood instantly chilled. "You've got Dana?"

Winston guffawed. "Yeah, asshole. Now, we're gonna see if you got something I want. If you do, maybe we can make a trade."

"Let me talk to her, Winston. Make sure she's okay."

"Nope. She can't talk right now, asshole, 'cause there's this rag in her mouth. She can't see nothin', neither, 'cause there's something wrapped 'round her eyes."

"Whatdaya want from me, Winston?"

"You went through Duboise's stuff, right?"

"Some of it. The police went through the rest."

"You better pray that you found what he had that I want."

"What's that?"

"Diamonds. A whole bag full of diamonds."

"I can get you the diamonds, Winston."

"Yeah, you'll get 'em, all right. Now, since I'm holdin' the aces, here's what you're gonna do."

"Whatdaya want me to do, Winston?"

"First, I'm a gonna draw ya a picture of the situation here. Your lady friend is really on her toes, really on top of things, you might say." He guffawed again in apparent appreciation of his own wit.

"What I mean is she's a standin' on a chair, on the tips of her toes. Now, the reason she's on her toes is that there's a noose around her pretty little neck. The rope is tied to a high beam over her head. If she was to fall off that chair, she'd strangle herself. Follow me, asshole?"

"I follow you."

"Good. Now get this, asshole. Her arms are tied behind her so she can't do nothin' 'bout the rope, see. What's more, when I get off this phone to you, I'm gonna pull one of her feet out from under her and tie it up high. Tie it to her waist, maybe. She'll be a doin' a one-step dance, standin' on the toes of one foot on that chair. Ya follow me?"

"I follow you."

"Yeah, I thought you would. Now this broad is young an' healthy. I figure she's good for maybe thirty minutes of balancing on her one foot 'fore her muscles let go an' she falls over and strangles herself. That means you'll have 'bout thirty minutes to do what I say and still find her alive. If you chase me instead, you'll just find her body a swingin' from a rope."

"I hear ya, Winston. Whatdaya want me to do?"

"First, you're gonna get those diamonds. Then you're gonna take 'em to the phone booth that's in front of The Rhino, that's the bar called The Rhino. You know where that is, don'tcha?"

"Down the street from Burger's warehouse? Am I right?"

"Yeah. Now listen. You're gonna leave that bag of diamonds in the phone booth on the ledge that's under the phone. I'll be watching for 'em. You leave 'em, and then you drive away, straight on down the street."

"What then?"

"Once I check to be sure you've actually left me the diamonds, I'll call and tell ya where your girlfriend's at. Maybe you can get to her 'fore she falls off that chair and hangs herself. Oh, and here's somethin' else. I'll give ya a chance to make one call to arrange to pick up those diamonds. After that, though, I don't want you callin' nobody so I'm a gonna call ya back every now and then. If I get a busy signal, hell, I'll just kick the chair out from under the United States Customs lady. That's what she says she is, anyway. Ya got it all straight, now?"

"I got it, Winston. You'll have the diamonds as soon as I can get there."

There was a click as Winston hung up and the line went dead. I called Joe. "Don't ask any questions, Joe," I said. "Just get the bag of diamonds out of your safe ASAP, and I'll pick them up as soon as I can get there."

Rene had heard enough of the conversation to know what was going on. I filled her in on the rest as she drove us to Joe's newsstand. He was out front with the bag of diamonds. "You better let me drive, Rene," I told her, "so Winston can see it's me alone delivering the diamonds."

Once we got the diamonds from Joe, I drove as fast as I dared. The sun had set, and it was dark now. A lot of questions raced through my mind, but I knew I had to stay focused if I wanted to see Dana alive again. Rene was with me, hidden on the floor of the back seat so that Winston wouldn't see anyone else with me in the car.

We didn't have time to explain things to some cop who might stop us for speeding so I kept under the legal limits even though most of the streets were deserted. We were about half way to the street where Burger's warehouse and The Rhino were located when my phone chirped. It had to be Winston. It was. "Hello?"

"Hello, asshole. Ya on your way?"

"I'm on my way."

"Better hurry, asshole. I think the broad's gettin' cold. Oh, did I mention to ya, she ain't got her blouse on anymore?" Winston guffawed loudly. "Ain't got her bra on anymore either."

"Pretty good body on her, too."

Whoa! That last comment wasn't Winston's voice, but someone in the background instead. From somewhere beyond's Winston's hearty guffaw, I heard another man laugh. Winston hung up the phone.

Now, I knew there were other men with Winston, wherever he was. I was sure of that. At least one other man, but probably more. I couldn't be sure just how many voices I'd heard.

I also knew Winston was trying to rattle me with his calling me "asshole" and his talk about Dana, but I was determined not to let him spook me. Her life, and maybe mine and Rene's as well, depended on my keeping cool. I told Rene what I'd heard and asked if she had a gun. She did.

Before Rene and I could make further plans, my telephone chirped again. This time, it wasn't Winston. Another man's voice greeted me with "Hello, asshole."

"Who's this?"

"None a your damned business. Ya otta see the broad, asshole. She's a doin' a real slow, topless dance, kinda like a one-step, trying to balance herself on that chair. Maybe Winston overestimated her lastin' for thirty minutes."

CRACK! All of a sudden, in the background, the muffled sound of a gunshot resounded over the phone line. CRACK! There was a second muffled sound that sounded like anohter gunshot. Before I could respond to the speaker, the phone clicked and went silent.

The Rhino was just down the street now. I parked in front of the bar, located the phone booth Winston had said was there, placed the bag of diamonds on the ledge under the telephone, got back into the car, and drove away, just like he'd told me to do. It seemed like it had taken forever to deliver those diamonds, and when I did look at my watch, I found that it had taken almost twenty minutes. We had to find Dana--and fast.

In the rear view mirror, I saw a figure move out of the shadows, spring into the phone booth, and exit just as fast. It looked like a tall man, but that was all I could tell. I couldn't identify the shadowy figure, although it didn't really move like Winston.

A car nosed arond the corner moments later and raced off opposite the direction we were headed in. Call me now, Winston, I breathed, Call me now! The phone remained silent. Winston wasn't going to call.

Burger's warehouse was the most likely place to find Dana. If she wasn't there, I had no idea where to look, not in the few minutes we had available. With nowhere else to go, I spun the car around and raced back down the street past The Rhino, braked sharply, and parked at the curb in front of Burger's warehouse.

There aren't any street lights real near Burger's warehouse, and there weren't any lights in the nearby buildings either. Like the rest of the street, Burger's warehouse was totally dark.

I glanced up and down the street and didn't see a single person. In fact, except for a little activity around The Rhino, the area seemed totally deserted--and extremely dangerous. In the still, black night, the old warehouse loomed above us, massive and hideous, haunted with Burger's evil. I didn't have time to think about evil, Burger, or anything else except getting to Dana while she was still alive--if she was still alive.

I asked Rene if she had a flashlight. She gave me the small one that she carried in her purse, then slipped her purse under the seat of the car so she wouldn't have to carry it when we went inside.

Once on the sidewalk, Rene and I edged sideways along the front of Burger's warehouse, keeping to the shadows as we cautiously approached the front door. To my surprise, that heavy steel door was ajar, standing about two inches open. An invitation? Or a trap? What could be waiting for us inside?

Only one way to find out. I listened. There wasn't a sound from inside the warehouse.

Rene had her 9mm Smith & Wesson automatic in her right hand. From the way she carried it, it looked like she knew how to use it. I sure hoped so.

"We goin' in now, Mel?" she whispered.

"Yeah," I whispered back, "Here's what we're gonna do."

"Okay." Rene's voice was tight.

"I'll go in first," I whispered. "You stick behind me like glue and watch our backs. Keep your left hand on my shoulder when I'm standing and on my hip or ankle when I'm in a crouch or on my hands and knees. That way I'll know you're there. I'll do my best to check for trip wires, and I'll have to get down on all fours part of the time to do that. Ready?"

"Go."

Rene's hand clutched my shoulder as I tested the partially open front door, running my hand around the door and across the sill. When I didn't find any trip wires, I cautiously pushed the door open far enough to put my head inside and flicked the flashlight beam around the room. No one was there, and I didn't see any obvious booby traps.

"Goin' on inside," I whispered over my shoulder.

With my hand cupped around the flashlight to shield and direct its beam, I scanned the second doorway, its frame badly splintered from when Ernie had crashed through it.

Rene moved as one with me as I moved quickly to that second door. I stopped along the way only long enough to shine the flashlight behind the counter where I'd first encountered Winston. No one was there tonight.

I knew that the light switches were just inside the second door. I'd seen them when I was Fletcher's guest in the warehouse a few days earlier. If I could reach those switches, we could illuminate the whole warehouse.

I'd also seen Fletcher's ability to build lethal booby traps, and it wasn't hard for me to imagine a wire from that second door to the trigger of a shotgun aimed at the opening, a booby trap just waiting for me. We were running out of time. I ran my fingers around that second door quickly, searching for any sign of a trip wire. Finding none, I eased the door open only to feel it bump against something solid when it was part-way open.

As I stepped over the threshold, I felt my shoe slide in something wet. My flashlight revealed the red-black pool of blood spreading from behind the door. Then I heard a low moan. Someone was on the floor behind that door, someone who'd lost a lot of blood.

I was desperately aware that we had to reach Dana soon or she would die. Motioning for Rene to stay back and away from the doorway, I pushed my way through that splintered opening, following the beam of the flashlight.

Winston's dark cold eyes stared up at me. He was lying in the pool of blood and, from the looks of his chest, he'd been shot at least twice. Likely the result of the two shots we'd heard.

Those light switches were to my right, and I flipped all of them I could reach with a slap of my hand, flooding the area with light. I motioned for Rene to come in, and then dropped to one knee beside Winston.

"Where is she, Winston?"

He moved his eyes away from me. "Uh, stairs, ta da right," he muttered.

Rene knelt beside him. I slid my phone from its holster and handed it to her. "Get what you can outta him and call an ambulance. Find out what happened to Dana's partner, too," I shouted at her as I sprinted for the stairs leading to the second floor.

There were more light switches on a column near the bottom of those stairs, and I hit every one of them as I went by. Lights came on above me on the second floor.

I took the stairs two or three at a time, trying to watch for trip wires as I did so. Dana was there all right, teetering desperately on one foot to keep from falling and strangling herself. "Hold on, Dana," I shouted, propelling myself toward her with all the speed I could muster.

Dana's whole body was trembling as I threw my arms around her, supporting her against my chest until I could reach my pocket knife and cut the hangman's rope that had been knotted around her neck. My knife sliced through that rope, and I soon had the noose loosened enough to slip it over her head.

Dana slumped against me, her whole body shuddering as I sat on the chair and held her close to me on my lap, telling her that things were all right, trying to comfort her as I untied her hands and freed her of the rope binding her one foot. Once I had the ropes off of her, I gently tugged the blindfold from over her eyes, and removed the gag from her mouth.

"Everything's okay now, Dana," I whispered over and over again.

Dana collapsed, sobbing, in my arms. She was exhausted, but she was alive. That was what counted. She plopped her arms limply around my neck. I held her close for what seemed like ages and rubbed her wrists, helping to bring the circulation back to them. Then I pulled off my shirt and helped her put it on.

Everything about me ached. I'd reopened some of the wounds from the grenade, but the fact that Dana was still alive cancelled out my physical pain. We just sat on the chair she'd stood on, just held each other, saying nothing, for several minutes. Then I kissed her on my favorite spot, on her neck below her ear.

A little later, I carried Dana downstairs. "Rene, we're okay! We're coming downstairs," I called.

Rene still was kneeling beside Winston. She'd propped his head up on something so he could breathe easier and covered him with a blanket. Where she found that, I had no idea, and I figured that was a helluva lot more than Winston would have done for any of us if the situation had been reversed.

When she saw that I had Dana with me and that Dana was alive, Rene breathed an audible "Thank God!" Then she informed us: "I've got an ambulance on the way for Winston. I've also got an all-points bulletin out for Jack Arons and Bill English." She scowled. "If there's anything I hate worse than a dirty cop, it's two dirty cops, and I've got everybody on the force looking for those two now."

"Airport? Private planes?" I had no idea how Aron and English would run, but I knew if it were me, I'd make for a private plane.

"Got 'em covered."

"Good. Did Aron and English do this?" I motioned toward Winston.

"I'm afraid so. From what he can tell me, they shot him, then cleaned out Burger's safe. Winston had money packed and was ready to run, but Aron and English took it with them, too. Now they're the ones making a run for it. And they probably got those diamonds, as well. Winston sure wasn't in any shape to go get them."

Rene hesitated before she continued. "There's more bad news. The three of them killed Dana's partner, the one who was with her on the stakeout, when they kidnapped her. The police had already found his body, but they didn't know what had happened to Dana. I didn't tell 'em all the sordid details. You don't need to, either."

"Thanks, Rene." I appreciated Rene's consideration.

"Oh, by the way, Dana?"

Dana turned her head slowly toward Rene, still in a daze. "Un-huh?"

"Just so you know. The police found your purse where you'd left it in that room you were using. I asked them to bring it for you, okay?"

"Thanks," Dana managed, but she didn't much seem to care just then. She just clung to me and shivered.

"Maybe when she's ready, Dana can fill us in on what happened."

"Right. You do good work, Rene. I'm proud of you. Is Winston gonna make it, do you think?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said. "He looks really bad to me."

"By the way, Rene, how come they let Winston outta jail?"

"No one let him out of jail. He overpowered two cops who were transporting him to his hearing and escaped. Or maybe Winston bribed them. I figure that however Winston managed it, Aron and English had a part in that. We'll find out."

Dana was still dazed, but she was beginning to get more circulation back in her arms and legs, and her breathing was getting back to normal. She'd been through a lot so I just held her close to me as we waited for Winston's ambulance and the police to arrive.

Once I was sure Dana was okay, I turned to Rene: "The police are gonna want to take a statement from Dana. Considering what she's been through, could you take it?"

"I'll take her statement," Rene responded, "and she won't have to come down to the station to do it. I'll see to that. After we've got Winston in the ambulance, we'll take care of it. We can do it in my car as soon as Dana's up to it."

"I'll . . . I'll be ready when you are." It was Dana who answered. She turned her face against mine. "Hold me, Mel. Do me a favor, and hold me really tight. Don't let me outta your arms again--ever."

I held Dana tight, wanting to find out from her exactly what had happened, thankful that she was safe. Knowing that Aron and English were out there some place, making a run for it.
Chapter 20

Dana's statement about her kidnapping held few surprises. To summarize the essentials, the kidnapping took place this way:

The task force Dana worked with had rented an office in a building across the street from a known counterfeiting operation. The office housed surveillance equipment and was staffed around the clock, seven days a week. Audio recorders that recorded telephone conversations were located there, as were directional microphones aimed through windows to pick up conversations originating within the building itself. In addition, video cameras aimed through the office windows recorded activities on the street, capturing vehicle license plates and photographing all of the individuals who were going into and out of the counterfeiters' building.

Dana and her partner had just settled into their night-shift routines. She had headphones on and was listening intently to a telephone conversation via a wiretap when there was a knock at the office door. When her partner, a rookie officer who had just graduated from the police academy, went to the door, someone said "Police" and held a badge to the peephole.

The moment the door was unlatched, three men who were in the hallway burst into the room. One of them hit Dana's partner over the head with a sap, knocking him to the floor, while the others went for Dana at her table, guns drawn.

Dana had her back to the door, and the earphones she was wearing effectively blocked her hearing of precisely what was happening. In fact, she had not realized what was going on until she saw a 9mm Smith & Wesson aimed at her head and felt another gun barrel rammed hard against her spine. Of course, she had no opportunity to reach for the gun in her purse.

The three men then hurried Dana down the stairs and to their car at the curb. One of the men kept his gun against her back while the other two walked one on each side of her. Only as she was being ushered out the door did she see that her partner had been knocked to the floor. (She did not realize at the time that he already was dead.) Without a word, her captors forced Dana into their car and then drove her directly to Burger's warehouse.

Although they blindfolded her as she was taken captive, Dana recognized Winston's voice. From the bits of conversation she overheard, the other two men had worked out plans to free Winston earlier that afternoon. They all planned to escape to South America, taking a tremendous amount of cash with them when they fled the United States. They had not, however, mentioned exactly where they were going.

It was Winston's idea to exchange Dana for the diamonds. She overheard him tell the others that the diamonds were worth approximately $600,000.

Although Dana had been tied to a chair on the second floor of the warehouse while the men discussed their plans, she had heard them argue loudly about dividing the cash that was in the warehouse safe as well as the diamonds. They had joked about Jack Burger not needing his share of the cash now that he was in the hospital and likely would be in prison for some time.

After Winston forced her to stand on the chair with the noose around her neck while he called Mel, Dana heard the three men laughing--and then arguing. Then came cursing and the sounds of a scuffle. She heard two shots before the lights in the warehouse went out.

Of course, Dana had no idea who had been shot. Neither did she know how Winston had been able to locate the supposedly secret location of the surveillance operation. She could only assume that the men who accompanied him were cops who had somehow learned of the location.

After taking Dana's statement, Rene and I both asked her if she didn't want to go to a hospital to be checked over. She said very emphatically that she didn't. She just wanted to go "home" with me. Rene said she'd drive us there.

It was just beginning to get light in the eastern sky when Rene parked at the back corner of Al's Tavern near the steps leading up to our room. She promised to call us later that afternoon after we'd all had some rest. She even climbed the steps leading up to our room with us, seeing us safely to our door.

Dana and I watched as Rene drove away. We both were exhausted, but somehow we managed to unlock the door and stumble our way into the room. I helped Dana climb into bed and under the covers, then downed some painkillers and rebandaged my leg and hip. Once that was done, I joined Dana in her--our--bed for some much needed rest.

"Hold me tight, Mel," Dana kept whispering over and over again. She snuggled into my arms, and I hugged her close. Almost at once, we both drifted off into a much needed though fitful sleep.

I awakened about three o'clock that afternoon, hurting all over, and hungry as the proverbial bear. Although I tried my best not to awaken Dana, she felt me move away from her. "Don't leave me, Mel." She whimpered, and clutched at my arm.

"Don't worry, Dana, I'm not going to leave you," I told her. "Are you as hungry as I am?"

"I'm starved."

"I'm gonna call Al downstairs and have him send up some food. I'll find out what they've got on the menu today, okay?"

"Okay. Although I really don't care what it is. I think I could eat just about anything today!"

Before I could ask about food, Al told me that Rene Forrester had called and wanted to talk to me as soon as I woke up. I promised him I'd call her. He said that she was out of her office but could be reached at a number she'd left with him. Dana, of course, had to talk with Al, too, before he hung up. Finally, we ordered some sandwiches and soft drinks, then waited for someone to bring them upstairs to us.

I dialed Rene's number while we waited. She seemed unusually cheerful, remarkably so considering she'd spent the previous afternoon interviewing people with me and then spent most of the night helping me take care of the mess at Burger's warehouse. "How's my chief, number-one suspect?" she teased.

"Officer, I've changed my mind. I'm not quite sure I didn't do it!" It wasn't much of a comeback, but it was all I could muster at the moment.

"You guys feeling better?"

I assured her that we were.

"Good." Rene got serious. "I'm talking with my boss, John Gray, right now," she informed me, "and if you two are up to it, He'd like to talk with you in person later this afternoon. It's very important," she added, "or I wouldn't ask."

I relayed the message to Dana. She replied, "I guess so, but tell 'em they shouldn't expect us to look our best."

I relayed Dana's message back to Rene. "No problem," she said, "Neither John nor I worry much about things like that. Frankly, I don't look too hot myself after these last two days."

Rene asked if she and John could meet us at Al's Tavern around five o'clock. I told her that would be good because we'd have time to talk before things got really noisy. I added that Dana and I'd do our best to be seated at our corner table by the time they got there.

"Be forewarned: I'm not gonna scratch you off my suspect list this time," Rene teased as she thanked me.

Al himself brought up our food, and I told him about our appointment with Rene and John Gray. He said he'd keep his eyes open for them, give them the VIP treatment, maybe even a free beer, if they got there before we did.

Dana and I finished eating about four-thirty, just in time to get ready to keep our five o'clock appointment. I gulped down two more painkillers, washed my face, combed my beard, and found some clean clothes. Dana was still shaky. She clung to me with one hand while she combed her hair, and then I helped her into some fresh clothes.

Obviously, Dana was tired and then some. She still looked good to me, though, and I told her so. The hint of the mischievous grin that had so captivated me when I first met her played around her mouth.

"Thanks, Mel. You're good for me, and you know I do love you!" her voice was little more than a whisper.

"I'd sort of guessed that last. And I'm glad you think I'm good for you. You sure are good for me. Ready?"

I was about to open the door so that we could go downstairs when Dana said, "Mel, wait. There's something I want to tell you."

"Okay."

"I don't know what this meeting with Rene and her boss is all about, but there is something totally unrelated to that I want you to know. I've reached a . . . well, a decision." Dana hesitated.

"About what?"

"I . . . I hope you won't think I'm stupid . . . just a silly girl being stupid."

"No, I would never think that about you, Dana. You know that."

"I'm not going back to Customs."

"That's fine with me. In fact," I added, "that's more than fine with me."

Dana hugged me tight. "Thanks for understanding."

That settled, we went downstairs and seated ourselves at the usual corner table. I got a basket of popcorn from our popcorn machine for us to nibble on and Cokes at the bar.

Even though I wasn't officially on duty as a bouncer that night, habit kept me alert as to who was coming through the door and what was happening in the tavern. No sooner than Dana and I were seated, three girls came in, laughing and calling, "Here's the birthday girl!" The three girls were quickly joined by several friends. It looked like the beginning of one of our frequent birthday parties. Before the evening was over, almost everyone in the tavern would be part of the party.

Across the room, a kid named Ricky Evans was amusing some of our regulars with card tricks. I could just hear his patter: "Pick a card. Any card," he kept repeating, all the time holding out the deck of cards for one of the girls to pick from. "Okay, now let's put the card back in the deck."

Ricky's good with cards. He has plans to become a professional magician one day. Comes in regularly, and usually wins at least enough in bets to cover his bar bill. Not that he has to pay for many of his own drinks. The folks he entertains usually enjoy buying him a drink or two.

Rene and a man I assumed to be John Gray walked through the front doors at precisely five o'clock. John was an older man, a tall, gaunt fellow who walked with a slight limp. He was wearing gray slacks that matched his graying hair, a short-sleeved white shirt that was open at the neck, and black boots. His thick-rimmed eyeglasses gave him a scholarly look.

Despite the fact that Rene had been up all night and likely had continued to work most of the day as well, she looked surprisingly good. She'd found time to do something with her hair and change clothes, and now was wearing navy blue slacks, a white blouse, and matching, low-heeled blue shoes. She was carrying a small briefcase under her arm in addition to her purse.

Rene spotted us right away and guided John to our table. I started to get up to greet them, but Rene headed off that painful prospect with a shake of her head that told me to stay put. Rene did the introductions, and we shook hands all around. John Gray said he preferred to be called "John," so we all were on a first-name basis right away. I like that. And I couldn't help but notice John's extra-firm handshake, the kind of handshake you don't feel very often nowadays. I usually don't make snap judgments about people, but I already was liking John Gray.

Annie came over as soon as we all were seated, and I took the opportunity to introduce her to Rene and John. You see, some people I've known in Internal Affairs departments have been real self-important so-an'-sos, so I wanted to see how John would treat Annie. I gave him good marks when he actually took a few minutes to visit with her. Yes, John Gray seemed like an okay guy, according to my ways of judging people.

Rene said she hadn't eaten all day, and asked what was on the menu. I recommended the ham sandwiches so both Rene and John ordered them with big mugs of draft beer. Annie hurried off to place their order and bring the drinks. A little later, I saw her huddling with Al and I couldn't help wondering what that was all about.

"I want to fill you guys in on what's been happening," Rene began. She took a small notebook from her briefcase, opened it, and ran her finger down a checklist: "Let's see. Winston's in pretty bad shape, but the doctors say he's gonna make it. He's facing a whole series of charges, and we've got him under tight security."

"Now, for Aron and English, those bastards," Rene shook her head. "You were right about the private airplane, Mel."

"They make it outta here?"

Rene chuckled. "Nope. Seems Winston was the one who scheduled the airplane, and the pilot was one of his old friends, a guy who flew regularly for the Burger/Fletcher operation. When Aron and English showed up at the airport without Winston, the guy refused to fly 'em. Told 'em they weren't going anywhere without Winston.

"According to the pilot, Aron and English pulled their guns on him. That was a mistake because the pilot's some sort of an ex-special forces vet who's been flying into trouble spots long enough to be wary. He knocked Aron's gun away, knocking him out cold in the process, then pulled his own gun and shot it out with English. Airport security came running when they heard the shots. The long and short of it is that English is dead and we've got Aron. He's in the hospital, and lucky to be alive. He's also under very tight security."

"Good work, Rene!"

"Thanks, Mel. By the way, you shoulda seen the cash and loot those two had with 'em! Over three million in United States currency alone. Oh, yes, and we got your diamonds back."

"Three million. Wow!" Dana stared in wide-eyed amazement. "I can't even imagine that much money!"

"Well over three million, actually. That plus the diamonds they took from you, Mel, and the gold bars Burger had in his safe when they cleaned it out should have kept them nicely for quite awhie--if they'd pulled off the escape."

"Any ideas about where they were headed?"

"The pilot said he was scheduled to fly them to Mexico City and then on to Guatemala. Winston had told him they'd decide later about a final destination. We've already learned that the three of them, Winston and the two cops, have been building up good-sized bank accounts in South America for over ten years. From what the pilot said, they've been plannng this 'retirement' for some time."

Before Rene could continue, Annie arrived with the food. To my surprise, Al came with her. He doesn't get out from behind the bar much so I figured he had a good reason for coming over. I introduced him to Rene and John.

Handshakes over, Al turned to John. "Been wondering about something ever since I saw you walk in."

"What's that?"

"Were you in the navy?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was."

"Ever stationed in the Pillippines, say about thirty years ago?"

John thought a moment. "As a matter of fact, yes . . . ." His eyes came alive. "That's it! You're Al O'Brian! I thought I knew you. Sure. We were stationed together there, let's see, it's been over thirty years ago now."

John stood up, and the two old sailors grabbed each other by the shoulders. It was clear that they were really pleased to see each other again. We all shared in their laughter and kidding.

"I'll let you get back to business, now," Al said a few minutes later, "but I just had to check you out. I knew I should know you by the way you walked, and when Annie told me your name, it all clicked into place."

Before Al went back to being bartender, he and John agreed to get together the following afternoon "for ol' time's sake." The rest of us congratulated them on their reunion. I've never seen Al quite so happy.

I got Dana and me some more popcorn while Rene and John tackled their sandwiches. Just as I returned to our table, I heard the tavern's telephone ring. We keep it under the counter near where Al works. When I looked his way a little later, he was holding the phone with his hand over the mouthpiece and motioning for me.

"Wantta take a call from a guy named Bill Kubble?" I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as Al handed me the phone.

Just as I had feared, Bill Kubble was calling with bad news. He was calling to tell me that Blake Sanford had died earlier that day. Before Blake died, he had asked Bill to call me. "He wanted to talk with you one last time, but he didn't have that chance," Bill told me. "He just couldn't hold on long enough."

I said I was sorry and asked if Bill was taking care of Blake's funeral arrangements. He said he was, and I told him I'd help with the expenses. Give him the funeral he deserved.

There was still more on Bill Kubble's mind, though. "Blake asked me to give you his personal effects," he continued. "There isn't much, just his wallet, a wrist watch, a ring, some pocket change, and a piece of foreign currency he'd apparently been looking at right before he died. Oh, and there's a package of some sort that he kept in our safe. Don't know what's in it because it's wrapped in newspaper and sealed with tape, and I don't snoop."

I thanked Kubble and told him I'd be happy to come over and pick up Blake's things, that I'd try to do that the next day. Just after we'd said our "goodbyes" and I was about to hang up, Kubble's voice came back on the line. "Oh, yes!" he exclaimed, "Wait a minute, Mr. Wakefield."

"I'm still here," I told him.

"Blake said something about the package he kept in our safe that I should pass along to you. He said there was something in that package that would interest the pretty lady who was with you the last time you visited him. He said you'd know who he meant." I assured him that I did and that I would be in touch with her on Blake's behalf. Once again, I promised him that I would be by the following day to pick up Blake's things.

Back at our table, I told Rene what I'd learned about Blake and asked her if she'd like to go with me to pick up his things, seeing that Blake thought something there would interest her. Dana vowed she wasn't going to let me out of her sight, so Rene said she'd pick us both up the following afternoon.

"Speaking of Blake," Rene began, "John and I have been going over his statement about that old murder."

"Uh-huh?" Dana was becoming more alert now.

'Well, we've found an unsolved case that fits most of the picture Blake gave us, and we've got the lab working on those two slugs."

John had finished his sandwich while Rene brought Dana and me up to date. Once she saw that he had finished, she turned to him. "It's your turn, John," she informed him.

"Okay. I'm a pretty direct kind of guy so I'll get right to the point. There are two things I want you both to be aware of." He focused briefly on Dana and then me. "First, Rene's in line for a promotion. In a day or so, she's going to be officially the Assistant Director of Internal Affairs. Second--"

"Congratulations. Way to go, Rene!" I interrupted.

"Yeah! Good for you!" exclaimed Dana.

We both extended our hands across the table toward Rene. She took our hands in hers. "Thanks, guys."

John looked on, beaming, and Annie came over just in time to share the good news. Rene and John ordered refills and Dana asked for a Bud. Me, I was sticking with Coke. Coke and painkillers. I told Annie to put everything on my tab, and soon she returned with our drinks.

"Second," John continued, "Rene and I have been doing a lot of talking about the direction the department is moving in and our needs for the future. We have a new position in Internal Affairs that will be funded within a few days. Actually, there's enough money for about a position and a third. You understand what I mean?"

John looked from Dana to me and winked at me. Then he turned to Rene. "You want to be the one to ask her?"

"You bet I do. When John asked if I had anyone in mind who might fill our new position, I said I sure did--Dana Brewster."

Dana's eyes were wide. "Me?"

Now it was Rene's turn to wink at me. "Yes, Dana, you. Oh, I know you're working with Customs, but we're prepared to make you a tempting offer to join us."

Dana was actually smiling. It was the first time she'd smiled since her abduction.

"You don't have to say 'yes' right now," Rene continued, "but we'd sure appreciate your consideration."

"Right, Dana," John broke in, "you don't have to say 'yes' right now--just as long as you say 'yes' by tomorrow. And you don't have to start this instant, either." He was smiling as he said that.

"There's something else, too," Rene began.

"Right," John said, "Go ahead, Rene."

"See, John said there is money for about a position and a third, and actually, what we really want is both of you working for us." Rene looked at me. "Both means you, Mel, as well as Dana."

"Me? Your prime suspect?"

"You, my prime number-one suspect, Mel!" Rene actually laughed out loud. "You didn't know what I meant by prime suspect, did you?"

We all laughed together.

"We know you already have a few things to keep you busy, Mel, what with working here and at your morning job, so we're not going to try to take you away from those things."

"At least not now, anyway," John interjected.

"Right, maybe later. However, we do have some money to hire what we call consultants and, well, we've been checking into your background, Mel, and we'd like to have you available for, say, special assignments."

Dana was leaning forward, listening intently. "Would that mean Mel could work with me, at least some of the time?" she asked.

"Exactly what we have in mind," Rene answered.

"Rene told me that the two of you seem to get along pretty well, so we checked out both of you," John said.

"Like we said earlier, you don't have to say 'yes' right now," Rene continued.

"Just as long as both of you do say 'yes' by tomorrow!" John and Rene repeated at the same time.

To be honest, my mind still wasn't all that clear right then, and I wanted, no, needed, some time to think about what Rene and John were suggesting. "Can we talk about this again tomorrow?" I asked.

"Sure thing," John replied, "and you can rest assured that we aren't going to ask anyone else in the meantime."

"Of course, we're not. Even if you guys were to say 'no,' we'd still try torture to get an eventual 'yes' out of you. Rubber hoses, maybe." By now, Rene was grinning from ear to ear as she spoke.

Dana rolled her eyes at me. "Tough bunch we're gonna be working with, aren't they?" We all laughed again at that.

Rene and John thanked us for our hospitality. While Rene, Dana, and I confirmed our plans for Rene to pick us up the next day, John went over to visit with Al. Both Rene and John waved to us as they left. They really seemed to have enjoyed their visit to Al's Tavern.

Dana drew me close to her. "It's been quite a night and a day," she whispered.

"Are you as tired as I am, Dana?"

"I sure am. Let's go upstairs and get some rest," she replied.

So we went upstairs. Dana was right, of course. It had been quite a night and a day, but there was something else I still had to do.

Dana started to change into her blue gown. While she was changing, I sat down in the sturdy wooden chair by my table and checked to be sure the box was still in the drawer.

"Dana, honey," I called softly, "come over here. I want to give you, er, well, I want to show you something."

"Sure, Big Guy." Dana came over, her bare feet padding softly against the floor. "Hey, how about if I sit on your good leg?"

"Uh-huh." I put my arm around her and pulled her down toward me. She eased herself gently into my lap so as not to jar my bad leg.

"That afternoon, I forget the day, but the afternoon I called Fletcher, you know when I mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, earlier that afternoon, I went over to a jewelry store to have an appraisal of the diamond I'd taken from the package we found in Floyd's things. While I was there, I looked around and saw something pretty that I thought you might like--so I bought it for you." I pulled open the drawer to my table and lifted out the small box I'd placed there.

"It's for me? You really got something for me?" Dana asked, her eyes wide.

"Yup. I thought you'd like it, but the jeweler said I could bring--"

"Mel. Why are you so insecure about me? You haven't even shown it to me, and already you're afraid I won't like it? Of course, I'll like it. Come on, give! What is it? Let me see it!"

I held the little jewelry box between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand and fumbled with the lid with the fingers of my left hand. Dana reached out and snapped the lid up for me. A diamond sparkled in the light as I held the box for Dana to see the ring.

"Oh, Mel! Is it really for me?"

"Yup, of course, it's for you."

"Oh, Mel, it's . . . it's absolutely gorgeous! Would . . . Would you put it on my finger? I'd really like that."

I lifted the ring from its holder, my hand a little steadier now. Dana held out the third finger of her left hand and I slipped the ring over it. "I didn't know your ring size, but we can have it sized."

"Oh, Mel! It's so lovely, and it fits perfectly."

"Does that mean you're gonna keep it?"

Dana snuggled her face against mine. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Forever and ever! It and you! Thank you, Mel! Thank you! I love you!"

I figured I'd get a good night's sleep that night. Things were looking up!
Epilogue

Things were looking up, all right, and not just for me. I'd been so busy concentrating on Dana and our wonderful relationship as well as identifying and taking down Floyd's killers that I hadn't been paying attention to what was going on with Ernie and Ken--and those guys had been busy.

It was several days after I'd had the best night's sleep I'd had in what seemed like weeks that Ernie and Sandy dropped into Al's Tavern one evening. Maybe I should have guessed what was going on with the two of them, because they were holding hands and obviously enjoying each others company. And then when Sandy came up and extended her left hand with the beautiful diamond ring on her finger--I knew! Yep. Ernie had proposed to her a few nights ago, and she'd accepted. They were working on wedding plans, too, and wanted to include me and Dana. They were certainly one happy couple--and I was happy for them.

When Annie came by to take our orders, I found out that she already knew Ernie's and Sandy's plans. Seems as if she's going to be a part of Sandy's wedding party.

A little later in the evening, I got another happy surprise. Ken and Janice walked into Al's Tavern, practically hugging each other as they came in. (You'll remember that Janice works in the restaurant where I usually eat breakfast, and how Ken had taken care of her problem of an abusive mate not long ago.) Seems as if they've been spending a lot of time together ever since, and Janice, like Sandy, is now wearing an engagement ring.

So there we were, three happy couples planning weddings. I'm not sure which of us came up with the idea that maybe we could plan one huge wedding ceremony for the three of us couples. At any rate, the idea seemed to be generally accepted that we'd do just that. Like I said earlier, things are really looking up!

The End

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