Send My Regrets
A detective noir short story
Download this story (for free!) as a PDF or EPUB.
Click here to read “Open Windows,” the first story featuring PI Shane Corvin
I felt good, for once. Despite having to live in my tiny office and shower over the sink in the even tinier bathroom, I felt good.
I had just finished a case involving a divorce, a missing dog, and a hidden stash of money and, although the divorce hit close to home, my wallet was full.
I finished my morning coffee, closed the door that said ‘Shane Corvin Private Investigator,’ and headed down State towards Gary’s Deli, intending to continue on afterwards to the pawn shop where I had hocked my watch.
At the deli, I got a breakfast bagel and shot the breeze with Gary. Gary was skinny, so skinny you’d think he’d never eaten his own pastrami on rye. He had a full head of black hair and a hooked nose and a general air of aloofness.
I did most of the talking as usual—Gary’s thoughts, presumably, were focused mostly on cold cuts and lox.
“You hear Carson had a break-in?”
Carson owned a pawn shop. I was one of his best customers.
“What? When?”
“Last night. Jason went by this morning on his way over,” he said, nodding to the long-haired, shifty kid at the register. “Said the door was busted and there were cops checking it out. They said Carson’s in the hospital.”
“Jesus. Is he okay?”
Gary shrugged. “He’s alive.”
“Did they steal anything or just break up the place?”
“Jason?” Gary said.
Jason shrugged. “I couldn’t tell.”
“He couldn’t tell,” Gary said. “You never know with these hooligans but my money’s on there’s some choice stuff missing.
“I better go check it out,” I said and wolfed down the rest of my bagel.
“The cops are already there. What are you going to do?” Gary said, but I was already out the door and just waved to him through the window.
Carson’s pawn shop was just a few blocks away. Despite the heat of the early morning sun I felt a chill as I speed-walked. I hoped they hadn’t taken my watch. It wasn’t much to look at so it wouldn’t stand out but then again it was small enough to get swept up easily into a bag with other watches and rings and jewelry.
Plus, I liked Carson too. He was probably sixty with a pot belly and a thin, wispy beard, even thinner hair on his head, and a deep booming laugh. He was always good to me—always gave me more than the watch, or whatever else I chronically pawned, was worth. I never asked him why.
I jogged down the street, not waiting for the lights to turn. Carson’s place was two blocks off State on 10th St. and the police presence was obvious but underwhelming.
One black and white was parked out front, one of the new SUV type cop cars, and a single uniformed officer was standing out front. Despite his sunglasses, I recognized him. It was Matt Walker, a cop I knew from previous dealings with the police and one of the few who tolerated me and the only one that was friendly towards me. We had actually known each other in high school. Despite our promises to ourselves, neither of us had escaped Rochester’s gravity.
“Matt, what’s up? How’s Carson?” I looked through the glass door. Two more cops were inside the shop.
He tried to block my line of sight and held up a hand—his eyes were probably narrowed behind the shades. His clean shaved face frowned.
“You have to stand back, sir. Police investigation.”
“Matt, it’s me.”
He glanced over his shoulder, then said in a low voice, “Yeah, I know it’s you but I can’t be seen being friendly with you. They’ll figure out I talk to you. Sarge doesn’t like you. Captain doesn’t like you. I can’t like you—officially.” He spoke louder, “Yes, sir, just a break-in. We’re still investigating so I can’t comment now. Any statements will be made by the Rochester police at an official press conference.”
I was disappointed but I couldn’t blame him. “Where’d they take Carson? Mercy or St. Anthony’s?”
“Mercy,” he said in a whisper.
“Who’s that, Walker?” The voice came from within the store.
Sergeant Rick Taylor emerged from the pawn shop. He was Matt’s ‘Sarge’ and, unfortunately, I was known to him. He had a bristling mustache below a large veined nose.
“Well, well, Shane Corvin. Always finding trouble.” He walked right up to me and tried to intimidate me although I was a couple inches taller. His chest almost touched mine.
“Sergeant Taylor,” I said flatly. I inclined my head.
“Get out of here.” He jerked his head. “Don’t make me take your license away.”
“You know you can’t do that.”
“Eh, it’s easier than you think. I talk to the captain, the captain talks to the chief, the chief talks to his buddies at the state licensing agency and like that (he snapped his fingers) it’s gone.”
“Sergeant, you really epitomize public service. They should give you a medal.”
“They already did.”
“Of course they did. Listen, I’d love to get into a pissing contest with you but I’m really just concerned about my friend so I’m gonna go figure out which hospital he’s at.” I turned and started looking up the hospital phone numbers on my phone even though I already knew where I was going.
“He’s at Mercy,” Sergeant Taylor said.
“Thanks, Sarge. You’re one in a million.”
He growled something in response but I wasn’t listening.
Mercy was just ten blocks or so west so I legged it over there. It was a typical older hospital—sandy brick exterior, lots of individual windows, small rooms, narrow hallways, old floors.
I asked for Carson at reception. It took me half a minute to remember his last name was Haynes. The receptionist directed me to the third floor—ICU stepdown. Seemed like that was better than being in the ICU but it probably meant he was too banged up just to be checked over and discharged.
At the nurses’ station I was told to go to room 312 by a comely late-thirties brunette who I would have liked to talk to more but who hadn’t shown any interest in my winning smile. I had other business anyway.
312 was a semi-private room. The curtains were open around the first bed. I found Carson in the second. There was a slight gap in the curtain. He was on his back staring at the ceiling. There was a bruise and a cut over one eye. His face was pale, his thin hair plastered to his head. His arms were lying flat on either side of him.
I reached out a hand to part the curtain and he sat up, leaning on one elbow. He grimaced in pain and barked loudly. “What?”
“Hey, Carson.”
He looked confused for a moment. “Oh. Shane. What do you want?”
“I just came to see how you’re doing. Gary told me what happened and I went by your shop. The cops told me they took you to Mercy.”
“And here I am,” he said, sighing.
“You gonna be okay? What did the doctor say?”
He stared at the ceiling. “You know what I hate about hospitals?”
I shook my head.
“It’s the smell. Smells like antiseptic—antiseptic and death. It’s everywhere. All that recycled air. You’re breathing the same air some guy dying in the next room just breathed. Then he dies and exhales all his breath and it goes up and mixes with everyone else’s. Yours, mine, the nurse’s, the doctor’s.” He laughed, his normally booming laugh sounding weak and hollow. “What can I do for you, Shane?”
“I just came to see how you’re doing—if I could help in any way.”
“What’re we friends or something?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. You tell me. Seems like you could use a friend right now.”
“Nah. Not me. I’m doing great.”
I sat down in the chair next to his bed. “Carson, quit with the self-pitying crap. I know, I’ve been there. But if you’re just trying to get me to go away it’s not going to work. Now what the hell happened?”
“I’ve got three broken ribs. My hand’s busted.” He lifted the heavily bandaged left hand that was hidden on the other side of his body. “And my head, of course.” He didn’t reach up to touch the wound on his forehead. He’d probably learned that it wouldn’t do any good.
“So you’re gonna live. Who did it? And why?”
“Ah, well, that’s the thing.”
“So you do know who it was.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Sure you did. You said ‘That’s the thing’ not ‘I don’t know.’ The only question is if you’re going to tell me.”
“Just some guys trying to shake me down. This isn’t the cleanest city in the world and it’s not run by boy scouts. You know that.”
“So who was it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Just some thugs. I don’t know who their boss is. They certainly didn’t want to tell me. Demanded protection money and threatened to wreck my place if I didn’t pay up. I told them I didn’t have cash to pay them with and they did this to me, though they made it clear that I still needed to pay.”
“Did they take anything?”
He looked at me. “Worried about your stuff?”
“Kinda.”
“I don’t know. Probably not. They weren’t interested in taking guitars and fishing rods to have a garage sale. They wanted cash.”
I heard footsteps behind me. The brunette nurse from the nurses’ station entered through the curtain.
“How are we feeling, Mr. Haynes?”
Carson grunted. “Fine.”
She checked his IV and the bag of fluids hanging from the top of the pole and pressed a button on the monitor mounted halfway down.
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
The nurse left.
“Help me up,” Carson said.
“Didn’t she just—”
He leveled his eyes at me. “I gotta take a piss. Help me up.”
I grabbed his good hand with my right and, hooking my left arm around his shoulders, pulled him into a seated position.
He steadied himself on the edge of the bed.
“You good?”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”
He walked to the bathroom wheeling the IV pole, hospital gown flapping and came back a few minutes later.
I tried to help him back into bed but he shooed me away. The bed creaked under him as he sat down. He sighed as he lay back. I thought he was being a bit dramatic but I’d probably be acting the same way if I were him. No one likes to feel helpless.
“So what’re you gonna do? Sit here all day?”
“You want me to go?”
“No, no. I don’t know. You’re fine. Hey, close that curtain, will you?”
I closed the curtain and sat down.
A voice came over the intercom announcing there was a code orange—which I didn’t understand—in the ICU.
“Someone’s croaking,” Carson said somberly. He chuckled. “At least it’s not me.”
I heard slow, steady footsteps coming down the hall and turn in at our door. I looked up as the curtain was drawn aside, expecting, and hoping, to see the nurse again.
Instead there was a man of average height with an unremarkable, clean-shaven face punctuated by two intense black eyes. He wore a brown suede jacket and jeans. A rancid smell of stale cigarettes wafted in.
“Hiya, Carson.”
I looked back at Carson and found myself staring down the barrel of a Glock 9mm pistol.
“Carson, what the—”
“You might want to move your head, Shane.”
I jumped up and stood at the head of the bed and behind the gun. The man in the brown jacket hadn’t moved.
“Got something to say or should I just put a hole in your head now?”
“Let’s not be too rash now, Carson. There’s really no need for that,” the man said. He had a slightly high-pitched voice and paused unnaturally between words. “I highly doubt you’re going to shoot me in a hospital. I’m unarmed. You’d have a hell of a time explaining it to the police.”
Carson lowered the gun onto the bed but kept it pointing at the man. “Don’t tell me why you’re here and I will take my chances with them. What do you want?”
“I was asked to come see how you’re doing—make sure you’re not too banged up.”
“Too banged up to pay?” Carson said.
The man merely smiled, tight and cold.
“You should know. You were there. And I have no intention of paying you or your boss now. You’re gonna have to learn that if you put my back up and leave me with no way out, I’m gonna be ready for you and it won’t be pretty. You want to kill me, you’re just going to have to kill me.”
“That’s disappointing to hear, Carson.” He stared at Carson for a moment then looked at me then back at Carson. He shrugged, then turned and left.
I followed him at a distance and watched as he got on the elevator. Taking the stairs, I headed to the first floor but when I got there he was nowhere to be found. The indicator showed that the elevator had stopped at the second floor so I raced back up but he was gone.
I didn’t normally find myself the voice of reason but I rounded on Carson when I got back to the room.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed or just arrested? Where’s the gun?”
Carson nodded tiredly to the bedside table.
I put the gun in my jacket pocket. “Who brought it to you?”
“Todd. He’s a good boy.”
Todd was Carson’s ne’er-do-well son for whom Carson had a huge soft spot.
“I have to look after myself,” Carson said. “The police aren’t going to do it. Give me the gun back.”
“No way. They’re going to find it and then you’ll be in even bigger trouble.”
“Or he could come back and kill me. Give me the gun.”
“Everything alright, guys?”
The nurse was back. I smiled in what I hoped was a disarming manner. “Yeah, fine. I was just leaving. I think he needs some rest. See ya, Carson.”
“Shane—Shane!”
***
Two days later I went by Carson’s shop just before closing. He was stumping around behind the counter, pretending to be busy and refusing to look at me. I laid the pistol on the counter.
“Thought you might want this back now that you’re out of the hospital. It was a dumb thing to do, Carson.”
“Yeah, yeah. What’re you, my mother?”
I shrugged.
He tucked the gun under the counter, then reached into the glass case next to him. “Here,” he said, placing my watch on the counter. “It’s on me.”
“Why?”
“No one else came to see me in the hospital. Except Todd.”
“Thanks. I’m getting a drink with Gary, you want to come?”
“Nah. I’m closing up and going home. Send my regrets,” he said, chuckling.
“Alright. See ya.”
***
That was the last time I saw Carson alive. It was deja vu all over again when the next day Gary told me the police were at Carson’s.
I expected to see a cop car and some broken windows.
Instead there were five cop cars, two ambulances, dozens of flashing lights, and a police cordon half a block long.
I ducked under the tape and ran over to find Matt standing guard again out front.
His face hardened when he saw me. “Shane, you can’t be here. He’s dead. There’s nothing you can do. Go on. Go on.”
My chest tightened. I felt numb. I turned and walked away.
On my way out, I noticed Todd sitting on the rear fender of one of the ambulances. I wasn’t going to say anything but just then he looked up and spotted me.
“Hey, Shane.”
He was a big man, bigger than me. He was about forty and he looked a lot like his dad just with more hair on his head and less on his face. The potbelly was the same. Right now he looked small though, like a child, tired and scared.
“I’m sorry, Todd.”
“Yeah, me too.” He paused. “Can you help?”
I knew what he meant. “What about the police?”
“Ah, screw them. What’re they good for?”
“Yeah. Sure, I can help. Let’s go get a drink.”
Outside the police tape again we waited on the corner to cross the street. A black town car slowed down as it approached the light, the driver intently staring down the street toward the crime scene.
I caught a glimpse of intense black eyes and brown suede.
As the car drove off, I committed the license plate to memory.
As we crossed the street, Todd said, “Do you think you can help?”
“Yeah. I’ll do it for free. And I know just where to start.”
***
Todd and I crossed State and ducked into the Brass Rail, a bar just down the street in downtown Rochester.
It was a quiet, blue-collar, Budweiser and Coors kind of bar where everyone minded their own business unless invited to do otherwise. The floor was clean, the air stale in a comforting, nostalgic way. Courtesy of my latest job I was able to buy drinks for me and Todd, drinks that were sorely needed.
I plunked down two shots of Wild Turkey and two Budweisers on the table and stuck one of each next to Todd’s balding head which he had rested on the table.
“Drink,” I said.
Todd knocked back the bourbon and gulped at the beer. He pounded the table.
“The fucking bastards.”
He had tears in his eyes which made me not want to meet his gaze but he was looking over my head anyway.
“The fucking animals. What am I supposed to do, huh? And I wasn’t there, I wasn’t there for him after all those times he was there for me.”
“He loved you, Todd. And you were there for him. You brought him the gun when he was in the hospital.”
Todd looked at me then for the first time.
“Yeah, he told me,” I said.
“Lot of good that did.”
“At least he got the satisfaction of pointing the gun at the guy.”
“He came to the hospital?”
“Carson didn’t tell you?”
Todd shook his head.
“Did you see him come in the shop at all? Clean shaven, brown jacket, highish voice, kinda looks like Al Bundy?”
“The serial killer?”
“No, that’s Ted Bundy. Al Bundy from Married with Children. I forget the actor’s name.”
“I never watched it, but yeah, I know who you’re talking about. He came in once when I was there. Creepy kind of guy. Didn’t pawn anything or buy anything, just kind of looked around making comments about the stuff and the place and kind of sizing everything up, you know? I could tell my dad didn’t like him but he for sure didn’t tell me anything about him. I know I’m not the smartest. My dad knew that. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t be much help or that I wouldn’t understand.” Todd hit the table again. “You gotta help me. I have to catch these guys.”
“Did you see any of the other guys?”
“No. Dad was the only one there the first time they smashed up the place.”
“Cameras?”
“Yeah, two inside the store.”
“Though the police won’t let me get a look. Any outside?”
“No, not in front or back.”
“Alley behind the building?”
“Yeah, each of the businesses has access out back.”
“Can you fit a car down it?”
“Sure.”
“They probably parked back there then either broke in through the back this time. The first time was for show to scare your dad, this time was for real. They wouldn’t want to be on camera outside if they didn’t have to be. Cameras pick up license plates. Lucky for me, I don’t need the footage, which is probably just two or three guys in masks anyways. I already know what one guy looks like and I saw him cruising past the scene a few minutes ago. A guy like that enjoys his work, can’t help coming back and taking a look. It’s a weakness in a way. Even though he’s ruthless, he likes it too much.”
“You learn that in school?”
I shook my head. “Criminal Minds, back when I had a TV.”
“Huh. Never seen it.”
“Is your mom around?” I said.
“Nah. She died when I was fifteen. Just been me and my dad since then.”
“Alright. Just wondering. Listen. I got a buddy at the DMV. I can get him to run the license plate and I’ll go from there figuring out who our first guy is. I saw him at the hospital so if I get a name or an address it won’t be too hard to track him down.”
“Alright, let’s get him.”
“No, just hold on. First off, it’s too soon for you. Second, the police are going to want to talk to you some more. Third, it’s too soon. You don’t need to do anything stupid when I find him.”
“Stupid? They killed my dad—”
“Exactly. Anyone would be compromised in your position.”
“I’m not compromised. I’m just going to kill the guy.”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about.” I leaned in and lowered my voice. “I’m not going to be a part of a revenge murder. If that’s what you’re looking for then you’re on your own. Is that what you want?”
Todd looked like a big toddler who’d just had his favorite toy taken away. It would have been funny if the whole thing hadn’t been so tragic. I felt for him, I really did. But he was big and angry and not the brightest on a good day so he was liable to do something stupid.
“No,” he said. “I gotta go. Let me know when you find something.”
He got up abruptly and left.
“Sure. No problem.”
He needed time. I needed time too.
***
My buddy at the DMV was not so much a buddy as someone who would have rather been a complete stranger given our last interaction. I might have knocked him out, although in my defense he hit me first but no one likes losing. So not so much a buddy as a hostile acquaintance whose name was Harold Perkins.
I walked around the line out the door and nodded to the ladies at the front counter. I find if you walk with purpose and act like you belong there you can get into most places without anyone asking any questions. Places like the DMV everybody’s too busy or too tired to go out of their way to stop you anyways. Government workers aren’t paid to care.
I found Harold in an office in the back.
He was short but fairly built. He reminded me of a hedgehog with glasses.
“Get out,” he said.
“Hey, bud. I need a favor.”
“Nope. Get out before I have Ryan throw you out.”
I assumed Ryan was a cop.
“I just need a quick favor and I’ll go.”
“You know you gave me a concussion? Notice how dark the lights are in here?”
I noticed when he said that. “Hey, don’t swing on me next time. What was I supposed to do, just let you hit me?”
“For being a dick? Yeah.”
“The dick is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Is that supposed to be clever?”
I shrugged. “I just need you to run a plate.”
I pulled a twenty from my pocket just far enough so he could see it.
“Put that away. Someone will see. Are you trying to make me lose my job? No, I’m not running your plate.”
“Harold. This is serious. I’ve got a friend who’s dad was just murdered. I’m following a lead. I just need the plate.”
“I don’t care if the pope was murdered. I’m not giving you your plate.”
“That’s fine. I’ll just make a call to the office of the secretary of state and have a little chat about all the times you did take money to run a plate.”
I didn’t have proof but even a phone call might be enough to cause problems for him.
“Fuck you. What’s the number?”
I told him and he typed it into the computer.
“It’s registered to Vinton Livery LLC. 405 E. Springfield, Suite 107.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t come back.”
“I’ll try not to.”
***
Vinton Livery was something of a dead end. Suite 107 at 405 E. Springfield was entirely something other than expected: a small office in a strip mall with no sign and just the number 107 on the glass door. If it was a functional limo service, there would have been a fleet of black sedans in the parking lot.
Inside there was a small sitting room with four chairs and a fake plant on an end table. There was a single door in the wall and next to it a sliding glass window.
A middle-aged woman with tightly wound hair and a hawk-like appearance sat behind the glass and slid the window open.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I have an appointment.”
The place felt like a dentist’s office so it seemed the right thing to say.
“Your name?”
“Gibson.”
Without looking down to check her planner she said “Mr. Porter doesn’t have an appointment scheduled right now.”
“Oh, really? That’s odd. He told me to come by today at,” I checked my watch which read twenty-five past ten, “ten-thirty. I’m just a bit early. If you check with him, I’m sure he’ll remember.”
The secretary closed the window and picked up the phone receiver on the desk. Her voice trickled through the thin glass.
“Yes, there’s a Mr. Gibson here to see you. He says you told him to come here at ten-thirty today. Gibson. No first name. Ahuh.” She hung up.
“Mr. Porter says he doesn’t know you and doesn’t have an appointment with you. Goodbye.” She closed the window.
I slid the window open. “Sorry but I’m sure he just forgot our appointment. Why don’t I just go talk to him? I’m sure we can sort this out.” I tried the door but it was locked.
“Sir, you’re trying to break in and we don’t want you here. Leave or I will call the police.”
“Just tell him I want to talk about Carson Haynes.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“You don’t need to. He does.”
She closed the window, picked up the phone, and spun around in the chair. The phone was back in the receiver and she was dialing. “I’m calling the police.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I turned and stalked out.
I got in my Taurus and drove around the parking lot looking for the black town car I had seen rolling past Carson’s shop. It was a quiet strip mall with a laundromat, a cafe, a fried fish and chicken place, and a couple empty spots. Nothing up front so I pulled out onto Springfield then turned at the corner and pulled in the drive leading to the back of the strip mall where there was the usual flotsam of dumpsters and crates and boxes and rusty backdoors. Parked by the back door of number 107 was the car, the black town car with the exact same license plate.
Mr. Porter was either my man or my man worked for Mr. Porter. I’d either found him or they knew each other and Porter could lead me to him.
I pulled back out onto the street and waited just past the driveway. I expected Porter to leave but not as soon as he did. He came tearing out of the driveway, turned right, and went past me up the tree-lined street. I caught a glimpse of him as he went by: bald, glasses, generally mustelid appearance. Not my guy but I followed, waiting until he was almost out of sight before pulling out. He was obviously easily spooked and if he suspected he was being followed he might take off or decide against going where he was going.
We went up Lincoln which led into a residential neighborhood off Springfield. He nearly blew through a stop sign which I had to stop for to avoid being spotted. I could imagine his beady eyes darting up to the rear view mirror, though maybe he was too focused on his destination. I almost lost him but he was slowed down by the light at Lincoln and State. He turned left and headed toward downtown Rochester. I was able to keep my distance two cars behind and just waited as he drove straight downtown before pulling off State into the parking lot next to City Hall.
Typical. These things always have to go to the top, don’t they? Or somewhere close to the top. A dozen thoughts passed through my mind as I drove around the corner and came in the entrance on the opposite side so it wouldn’t seem to Porter that I had followed him into the lot.
What did someone at City Hall want with Carson? Was someone in the city government really shaking him down for protection money? It wasn’t the kind of racket government officials typically got involved in. Theirs was the domain of corruption and bribery, embezzlement and fraud.
I parked and waited. There was no way I’d find Porter in the building now and no sense in running around looking. On the other hand, he didn’t know what I looked like—at least I didn’t think he did, maybe his secretary gave him a description—so I could probably have a look around without rousing any suspicions.
I was just about to get out of my car when I spotted Todd, of all people, walking out of City Hall.
What the hell was he doing there and how did he beat me to it? How could he have possibly known that there was a connection between his father’s murderers and City Hall?
The only possible conclusion was that he had known more than he had told me.
I got out and strode across the parking lot. “Todd, what are you doing here?”
He jumped and his scruffy sad face took on a hunted look. “Shane—I was just looking around, you know, doing some digging of my own.”
“How’d you know to come to City Hall? I only got here ‘cause I followed a guy here, a guy that works at the same place where the car driven by the killer is registered.”
“I—uh, just something my dad had said that I remembered.”
“Which was?”
“He said something about building permits.”
“Building permits? That’s it?”
He squirmed. “Yeah, I don’t know. I just thought I’d come check out the permit office and…yeah.”
I knew he was lying or telling half-truths but I wasn’t going to get the truth out of him. The reality was that Todd was a grown man, a bit of a child in a man’s body but a grown man nonetheless and whatever he was going to do he was going to do it regardless of what I thought or didn’t think, said or didn’t say. I had a bad feeling about him but there was nothing I could do. If he wasn’t going to be honest with me I couldn’t help him.
Todd looked around. “I’m gonna go. I’ll see you later. Let me know if you find anything.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
He should be the one letting me know.
I went inside City Hall, not looking back to watch Todd so he hopefully wouldn’t get even more spooked than he already was. Maybe he was dumb enough not to think I suspected him of something.
I check the office registry and found my own way to the permit office. A bored, sullen thirty-something woman behind the counter looked up from her phone as I entered the small office. “How can I help you?”
“I wanted to check some permits.” I gave her the address of Carson’s shop.
She clicked and typed on the computer and handed me a printout.
There was nothing unusual. There hadn’t been any permits pulled on the property in years.
I was about to leave when a thought struck me. “What about the surrounding properties on the block?”
“What about them?”
“Can I have the printouts for them too?”
“Which ones?”
“The whole block.”
She sighed but didn’t otherwise respond. I took that as a begrudging ‘yes.’
A few minutes later she handed me a stack of papers.
“Thanks,” I said and left.
Sitting in my Taurus, the stack of papers on the seat next to me, I went through each one by one and each property had the same permit: demolition. All except for Carson’s and all approved in the last few months.
It all suddenly became obvious. Someone was buying up all the property on the block and Carson was, had been, the holdout. They may have even killed him because of it.
Why didn’t Carson tell me? Maybe he didn’t know or didn’t put two and two together. Maybe the developer came to him with an offer, he said ‘no,’ then the goons show up a few days later pretending to be shaking him down when they were really threatening him. Maybe he didn’t want to believe that some developer would try to kill him over a tiny piece of land. But Carson was no fool. He must have known the break-in was related. Unless there was no initial offer and they broke in to try to scare him into selling. They scare him then swoop in with an offer that’s too good to refuse. Except he did and it got him killed.
All pure speculation. What I needed was evidence. More evidence than I had. I needed sales records, business names, addresses.
But right at that moment, I needed food and a beer and a moment to think. If I went around digging up records, someone was bound to notice. Someone might have already noticed that I checked the permits for the properties on Carson’s block.
I stopped by Gary’s for a pastrami on rye then went to the Brass Rail for a beer. I shot the breeze with Ricky the bartender and asked if he’d seen Todd, which he hadn’t.
I walked from the bar back to the office, the cool autumn breeze carrying the dusty smell of cut corn in from the fields around Rochester. Once inside, I closed the blinds, locked up, and did some thinking over a dram of Old Forester.
It was some time later when I was dozing in my chair that there was a knock at the door.
I waited.
More knocking, loud, rapid, insistent.
“Go away,” I said.
“Shane? Shane, it’s me.”
“Me who?”
“It’s Todd. Todd Haynes. Can you let me in?”
Shoot. I sighed. “Yeah, just a sec.”
The door swung in and he leaned against the door frame.
“What time is it?” I said.
“I don’t know. Can I come in?”
“Yeah. What’s going on?” I pulled my chair out from behind my desk and sat him down. His hands were shaking and, in the light, he looked hunted and tired, his usually dumb, jovial face was dour and streaked with sweat. “Drink?” I handed him a fresh glass of Old Forester.
He knocked it back in one go.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Ah, that’s better.”
“Todd. What’s going on?”
He stared at the floor. “It’s not good, Shane. I don’t know, I don’t know. I just gotta get my mind right. Shake it off. I gotta open the store tomorrow.”
“Snap out of it, Todd. Nobody’s opening anything tomorrow. It’s still a crime scene. Remember?” He looked like a tiger pacing its cage. I didn’t fancy needing to fight him but he needed some tough love. “Whatever is going on, whatever you did, do you really want to tell me? I can’t guarantee what happens next.”
“What do you mean what happens next? You gonna call the cops on me, Shane?”
His eyes were as big as dinner plates.
“Todd, I’m not in the murder business. I catch murderers, I don’t help them.. Mostly I catch cheaters, actually.”
He looked defiant. “I’m not a murderer.” He cleared his throat, his voice deepened. “I’m not. I’m an executioner, that’s what I am.”
“How’d you find him?” I watched him for a minute as he sat there, not moving. “Unless you didn’t need to. Unless you knew him all the time.”
He shook his head, like he was trying to clear his vision. “I didn’t know, not the whole time, not when I asked you for help. It was just something my dad said that got me thinking.”
“About someone buying out the block and building?”
“Yeah. Vinton Construction.”
“Vinton Livery.”
“Huh?”
“Just a business where I found the car, the killer’s car, registered to.”
“What’s a livery?”
“Limo company. At least, it’s supposed to be but it looks like a front. So I take it you tracked him down at Vinton Construction?”
“Yeah.”
“And he’s dead now?”
“Yep.”
He said it without feeling, just a statement of fact.
“I’m not even going to ask why, I mean, it’s obvious.”
“My dad was the best thing that ever happened to me and I didn’t even deserve him and he took that away from me. So, it was the least I could do. The only thing I could do, really.”
He had that same stubborn pride his father had had. Knocked around, worn down, but still getting up. But he was a murderer and as much as I understood what he did I couldn’t take a murderer’s confession and not do anything about it.
“You know I gotta call the cops, Todd.”
“Can I have another drink?”
I poured the bourbon.
As Officer Walker put Todd in the squad car and Sergeant Taylor chewed my ear off, I thought about whether Todd was right or wrong, that is, completely right or completely wrong, or maybe a bit of both. I wondered, when it came down to it, whether I would have the courage of my convictions like he did.
Turned out I was looking at the answer to my question.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, strictly a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance, perceived resemblance, or similarity to any other fictional works, to actual events or persons, living or dead, and any perceived slights of people, places, or organizations are products of the reader’s imagination. This fiction is the result of a partnership between a human writer and the character(s) he accessed with his creative subconscious as he raced through the story with them. No AI of any kind, generative or otherwise, was used in any way to write this story.
All good noir detectives need a beat up car. A Taurus is perfect.