The Midtown Murderer Page 7

  “Uh-huh,” Trent said, examining the oil-stained asphalt.

  “Guy wearing a black hoodie and big black sunglasses gets out and sets an orange cone down in front of the truck; puts one behind the trailer, too. You know, real careful like. No one does that shit on this street.”

  “OK.”

  “Then he crawls inside the trailer, drops an aluminum ramp, and drives out on a black riding lawnmower. Cuts the lawn then uses a black leaf blower in the driveway and around back.”

  “What’s odd about that?”

  “House is a repo. Lawn’s been neglected for months.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. I’d never seen the truck or driver before.”

  Trent smiled. There it is, he thought. The break in the case that Chief Clay didn’t want to acknowledge existed.

  “Any company name on the guy’s rig?”

  “No. Just that shiny paint job. Black as death.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Had to go to the VA hospital that morning and get my lungs cleared out,” he said, drawing on a filterless cigarette. “Ended up in intensive care for two days. ‘Give up fags,’ the doc says. ‘Fuck him,’ I say. What with living in a wheelchair, smoking is the only pleasure I have.”

  “Sorry, man.”

  “Aw, it’s all right. Fuck those dopers. Fuck the Midtown Blue.”

  Trent spent a few minutes grilling the guy, but he couldn’t describe the driver or the type of truck or provide any other details.

  “Damn garbage men,” the wheel-chaired man said, waving a hand at the street.

  Trent knelt and picked up a piece of trash. “You’ve been a huge help, and I appreciate your time.” He peeled off a twenty and stuck it into his tin. Then he walked out of the neighborhood.

  Chapter 20

  Trent was trudging east on Fourteenth Street toward the Ansley Square strip mall when a blue-and-white Midtown cruiser pulled to a stop beside him.

  The passenger window dropped and Radcliff said, “Hop in, Palmer.”

  Trent slid onto the hard plastic bench and shut the door. “Thanks for the ride, my friend,” he said, rubbing his hands to restore circulation. There was a cup balanced on the dash, and the smell of alcohol was strong. Trent thought that some must have spilled on the heater.

  They were in the middle of heavy honking traffic when Radcliff said, “What happened to your face?”

  “I drove out to the Whiskey A-Go-Go Lounge for a cold beer,” Trent said awkwardly.

  “I’m awfully sorry, Palmer, but I told you not walk into the Apostles den unannounced; only a fool would pull a stunt like that without backup.”

  Trent nodded.

  “Did you learn anything while you were there?”

  Trent thought for a moment before answering. “That it was way too much trouble for nothing,” he finally said, deciding he didn’t know Radcliff well enough to trust him with the information.

  “Now what?”

  “Still searching for Chloe. Posting flyers. Asking questions.”

  “Hope you find her,” Radcliff said.

  “I’ll find her: you wait and see.”

  “You probably will.”

  A big luxury car passed in the opposite direction. The driver waved at Radcliff and beeped his horn.

  Trent didn’t see the driver, but he spotted an elderly white-haired woman in the passenger seat. “Who was that?”

  “Mr. Hot Pencil,” Radcliff laughed. “He picks up his mother every day from an assisted-living home and takes her to lunch.”

  “Who?”

  “McClure.”

  Trent thought about his encounters with McClure, Jake and Elwood, and the gangs and shivered. He had very little time to find Chloe. “Does everyone at the precinct have a nickname?”

  “No, but a few deserve them. When McClure was a patrolman he wrote more citations than anyone in the department; busted taillights, expired tags, you name it.”

  Trent nodded, thinking that when he was on the force he had known a few of those hardnosed police types who did it all by the book.

  When Radcliff slowed for traffic, Trent glanced out the window at a billboard. On it was a picture of McClure dressed in a sharp suit standing beside a prominent African-American Reverend. Several children of different nationalities were seated around them. The caption read: THE ATLANTA POLICE DEPARTMENT AND THE NATIONAL URBAN LEAGUE ARE STRIVING TO GIVE THE CHILDREN OF ATLANTA A CITY FREE FROM DRUGS AND VIOLENCE. INVEST IN THEIR FUTURE.

  McClure’s the golden boy, Trent thought. And rotten to the core . . .

  Radcliff pulled the cruiser onto an angle-striped no-parking zone, zipped down the window, and leaned across Trent. “Hey, asshole; you want me to pull you in?”

  “No, Sergeant Radcliff,” an elderly hobo said. “I’m as sober as a nun. Go mess with them mean transients outside the library.”

  “I’ll put you in the slammer you don’t tell me what I want; you seen Anima?”

  “Not since yesterday.”

  “Stay sober, you old fart,” Radcliff said, checking his rearview. Then he pulled the car into traffic.

  “Who’s Anima?” Trent asked, rolling up the window. He looked in the side mirror at the hobo giving Radcliff the finger.

  “A whacked-out wino who thinks he’s Christ; lives in Midtown. Wanted for stealing a ten-speed bike.”

  “A real threat, huh?”

  Radcliff’s police radio crackled and he turned it down. “You still think someone other than the gangsters might be responsible for the Midtown murders?”

  “Well,” Trent said, not wanting to tip his hand to the GID report. “Say all the thugs were knifed; then it would be a slam dunk. Until you get a break in the case you should study all the possibilities.”

  The traffic began to move again. “Still thinking like a cop.”

  “Sergeant, you can drop me here; I need to pick up a few groceries.”

  “No problem, muchacho. Midtown Blue at your service.”

  Trent leaned on the window frame and said, “Thanks for the lift.”

  “Hope you find the child,” he said, putting the cruiser into reverse.

  Trent spotted a few pamphlets on the back seat. He lied and said, “I’m out of smokes; let me bum a fag.”

  “Just for you, hotshot.”

  Trent used Radcliff’s gold-plated lighter to fire the smoke. He glanced furtively at the brochures. “Thanks.”

  “No jaywalking,” Radcliff said, gunning the car toward the park.

  Chapter 21

  Trent was angling toward the Ansley strip mall when a tramp appeared out of the blue. He was crouched behind a grocery cart heaped with refuse in a litter-filled stub between a tire-repair shop and the Peking Grocery Store.

  He was a shriveled figure with unkempt iron-gray hair, a ratty beard, and red-rimmed eyes. He wore a tattered army greatcoat, and he was coated with grease as though he had been sprayed with Pam. The upside? He didn’t stink.

  Trent studied him carefully. He wondered if he had been imbibing and if he was nuts. Keeping his distance he said, “Hey there.”

  Nothing.

  Trent upped the ante. “Hey, buddy,” he said, tapping his shoulder softly. “Want a smoke?”

  A faint nod.

  Trent drew out a cigarette; he lighted the smoke and held it out.

  The hobo took it in his gnarled fingers, pinched the filter off, then drew the smoke deep in his lungs.

  Trent set his extra pack on a metal fan poking out of the hobo’s cart.

  A dull stare from the hobo. Then a nod.

  “What’s your name?” Trent asked.

  “Anima,” he said quietly.

  Trent thought he sounded timid. “Are you a priest?”

  Anima shrugged. “A priest,” he murmured, gazing at the stalled traffic on Monroe Street, not seeming to watch anything.

  Trent held out a bottle of wine and twisted the top. “May the peace of the Lord be always
with you,” he said.

  Anima took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his scared hand. “And with your Spirit.”

  “You were in the park yesterday morning,” Trent said. “I saw you talking on a cell phone.” His ears and nose stung from a chilly wind that moaned through the buildings.

  There was recognition in the man’s eyes; he didn’t say anything, but Trent could sense he was not denying it.

  “That phone might have belonged to the dead biker or the murderer,” Trent said, hesitating, then stepping in all the way. “A child was kidnapped because she saw the killer: her life is in danger.”

  There was silence except for the low rasping of his voice.

  “Her life is in danger,” Trent repeated.

  “Goddamn shame . . .” Anima said, digging into his cart. “Goddamn shame about the child.” He handed Trent a leather purse covered with dried blood, more brown than red. “The phone is inside.”

  Trent could not believe what he was seeing. What a lucky break, he thought. Things were suddenly beginning to brighten. “Did you see the girl?”

  “No,” Anima said, smoke leaking out from his cracked lips.

  “Did the killer ride a motorcycle?”

  Anima shrugged. “I’m not sure. Bikers were there; but then they roared off.”

  “Did you see the killer?”

  He looked at Trent knowingly but remained silent.

  “Can you tell me who it is?”

  His small round eyes flickered with evasiveness.

  “Want to talk to the police?” Trent asked helpfully.

  Anima moistened his lips nervously. “No.”

  “Anima, if the killer is searching for the phone, you could be in serious danger.”

  “Lotsa people murdered around here,” he murmured, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and fingers.

  “Let me put you up for a few days,” Trent said, “until the killer is caught.”

  His eyes fixed on Trent with a desperate urgency. “You’d do that?” he asked, drawing his coat tight against a gusting wind that puffed his tattered clothing.

  Trent touched his shoulder and said, “Walk with me to that cab.”

  They were in the taxi. The driver was a young Rasta who had long dreads and wore a green-and-gold shirt; he had a stick of incense burning on the dashboard that made the air smell and taste like warm onion soup. After a trip to the grocery store, Trent had the Rasta drive by a few motels on the west side of town. A lighted sign outside a Motel 6 said VACANCIES, and Trent had the driver stop.

  The Rasta pulled into the parking lot, which was almost empty. Trent paid the man to wait, then strode into the small motel office with Anima behind him.

  An old man behind the counter sat on a stool watching television. He stood and said, “Help you?”

  “Need a room for three days.”

  “Two hundred dollars, plus tax.”

  Trent placed five fifty-dollar bills on the counter.

  The clerk had inherited the smile of every night clerk who had ever stood behind the counter of a hotel where guests pay cash. “I need a hundred dollars for a security deposit.” He looked at Anima and said, “You’ll get it back when you check out.”

  Trent placed two more fifties on the counter.

  The old man gave Trent a registration card. He filled it out, using the name Fred Smith and a fictitious address in upstate New York.

  He pushed the card to the clerk, and the man held out a white triangle of cracked plastic that had a big brass key dangling from it. Trent took the key, his change, and a receipt for his hundred dollars.

  The clerk said, “Unit Eighteen. To your left when you walk out; toward the middle. Checkout is at eleven.”

  “Thank you.”

  Trent entered the room and turned on a light switch. He found the Climatron beneath the window and pushed the Hi Heat button on the control panel.

  “Anima, the groceries are in the refrigerator,” Trent said, setting the TV remote by the bed. “There’s a liquor store across the street. Rest up. I’ll come for you when it’s safe.”

  “When it’s safe,” Anima mumbled, lying on the twin bed and bundling the comforter around himself.

  Trent laid three twenties on a burned-scared writing table then let himself out.

  Chapter 22

  By the time the cabbie dropped Trent at his apartment, the weather was bleak and threatening. Head bowed into the wind, he trudged through ankle-deep snow to his new front door. Looks solid, he thought, shaking the door knob and fingering the hardwood.

  He was exhausted and sore as he had ever been after a few days at work, not to mention having been interrogated by Priest and McClure and Jake and Elwood. He was desperate for sleep, but he wasn’t going to get any rest. And he was fighting the pain from the two beatings. He briefly considered taking a Perc, but he needed to stay as clearheaded as possible and think. The pain would help with that.

  He opened the purse and examined the contents. In a zipper pocket on the inside he found two rechargeable cyber keys the size of security tokens attached to blue plastic tags; the lettering on the tags had been carefully removed. He held one of the tags under a lamp but could read nothing. Got to be what everyone is searching for, he thought, lighting a cigarette and jetting smoke out his nose.

  He was trying to recall the crest on Jake’s ring when his home phone rang. He flicked ash on the hardwood floor and decided to let the caller leave a message.

  “Palmer,” he heard an excited voice say. “We’ve had a positive break in the Chloe Lee abduction case. Step on the gas and hustle over to the Piedmont Park murder site!”

  All his senses were focused in a flash. He picked up the phone and said, “On my way!” Then he carefully locked the door and remembered to stash the cyber keys under the seat of his bike.

  Chloe’s fine and in her mother’s arms for sure!

  By now the sleet was falling hard. In a few minutes it had slicked the hard-packed yards; the fat dollops were melting and forming clay-colored pools in sidewalk cracks and streaming down the sloping street.

  Trent dodged chuck-holes down Orme Street and turned into the park. He crossed the railway bridge, noticing that the park was empty. Not surprising, he thought, wondering what fool would walk their dog in this frigid weather.

  When Trent turned onto the loop road toward Oak Hill, he took off at an all-out sprint, but a stabbing pain sliced through his knee.

  “Goddamn it,” he yelled, hobbling to favor his bum knee. At that instant a mini shock wave hummed past his ear. The edge of a waist-high granite monument shattered before he heard the cough of the gun.

  “Jesus Christ! Jesus!” he cried, as a spray of stone fragments that felt like bee stings sliced into his upper torso. He dove off the path then scrambled across the cold, mossy ground behind an untrimmed hedge.

  His heart hammered as he put his fingertips to his neck; they came away wet with blood. Craning his neck around him, he felt astonishment followed by instant terror as a second projectile rocked the monument.

  Trent knew it was the lake or nothing. He plunged through the dense vegetation at top speed toward a stand of old evergreen and magnolia trees that curtained Lake Clara Meer.

  He glanced behind and glimpsed the rifleman-a well-built person wearing a black jogging suit and a black wrap-around motorcycle helmet sprinting over the bridge.

  Crawling around the vast trunk of a Magnolia tree, he squeezed under a thick, low-draping branch that projected out over the lake. He was diving in the water when a bullet sheared the horizontal branch inches above his head. Hundreds of small black birds squawked and whirled in a fluttering cloud from the tree as the twenty-foot section-thick with leathery green leaves-fell over his body.

  Trent splashed into the bitter-cold, fog-shrouded water using the triangular-shaped limb for cover. Then he pressed himself under the ledge of the slick bull-nosed bank. Taking a deep breath, he kept his body and head submerged and trained one eye abov
e him.

  Damn it to hell, he thought, as a rifle barrel appeared above him. The shooter held onto the trunk of a feathery-looking baldcypress and tried to lean over the edge; but the ground was too slippery and he quickly disappeared.

  Paralyzed by fear, Trent remained submerged in the icy water. An hour had passed; now he was wracked by violent cramps, and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. He pulled himself up the bank and crawled into the bushes. He knelt, peering through the limited visibility at a trashcan lid bowling along the loop road. Fucker is long gone, he thought, keeping his form low and trudged through the windswept park toward his apartment. He was icebox-cold, and his wet clothes flapped in the wind. Clouds of white vapor from his clipped breath, like that of a choo-choo train, rose into the cold air above his head.

  When I find that son-of-a-bitch . . .

  He limped around the corner of Orme Street and froze. Several police cruisers with silently flashing lights were parked outside his apartment building. An EMS ambulance was backed into the driveway. Three officers wearing dark coats with MIDTOWN POLICE emblems loitered in the street.

  Trent waved his arms frantically and yelled, “Call Inspector Priest! Call Inspector Priest!”

  Radcliff turned. “That’s Palmer!” he yelled in disbelief. Then he unholstered his pistol and aimed it at Trent. “Cuff him!”

  Chapter 23

  “Radcliff,” Trent said breathlessly, as the officers pinned his arms behind him. “Someone is . . .” His voice choked with fear, and he had to say it twice. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

  Radcliff walked carefully across ice-crusted puddles toward him. “Someone is already dead. And the body’s in your apartment.”

  Trent winced as the cuffs dug into his wrists. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” Radcliff said, pointing at two white-clad attendants. They were pushing a gurney with a squeaky wheel up the driveway. On it was the shape of a body in a gray zip-up bag. “Frisk him and read him his rights.”