The Three Monkeys, a Carter A. Johnson & Kate Menke Thriller Page 15

  "Good morning, Tom. This is Carter Johnson. How the hell are you?"

  "Carter! I'm good and it's great to hear from you. Been a long time, Pal."

  "What's this SAC thing? Get a promotion?"

  "Sure did, came through less than two months ago. The man I replaced had a heart attack and died. I had to take over on the fly and try to figure out his filing method and go through his less than complete notes and files. It's finally coming together, but it’s been a real challenge.”

  Carter listened in silence as Thom regrouped.

  “The SAC in St. Louis has been shorthanded for at least six months and asked to shift some of his cases to me shortly after I took over here. My assistant, Agent Agnes Mitchell, has contacted someone on just about every case the office is responsible for. She’s doing a great job.

  "I called you because Capt. Harlee Davis is listed as our contact at the St. Louis police department. When Agnes reviewed the case with her, Davis said there were no new developments on those three people who were impaled and hung on a barn in Illinois. Then she said you and a partner had opened J&M Investigations and are working the case. She suggested we call you and get acquainted. I would have called you immediately, but I was in D.C. the last two days in meetings."

  Carter said, "I'm afraid there's nothing new or good to add to anything Captain Davis may have told you. We're at a dead end."

  Carter put his boot heels on the corner of the desk and leaned back. "My partner and I get over to K.C. occasionally to visit her mother. Before our next trip, I'll call ahead and arrange to meet with you for lunch or dinner."

  "Sounds great, the sooner the better. We've got a lot of years to cover to get caught up."

  "Good. Congratulations on the promotion. Hope to see you soon." Carter ended the call. The gap in his employment history would have to be fudged when he spoke to Tom.

  They approached Seattle on Highway 5 North at ten that night. They'd make good time by tagging along at a distance behind cars running over the speed limit. Paul had the names and addresses for four bottom-tier motels near the industrial side of town and map locations for them. He detested the thought of staying in such low-class hovels, but all the major chains demanded credit cards for payment, and that created a record of their whereabouts. All four of the chosen lodgings were within a mile of each other. After giving them cursory drive-byes Johnny chose the one he preferred. All four had lit vacancy signs and few cars on the parking lots.

  Check in was fast after Paul held firm on paying with cash. The dopy looking young woman lifted her studded nose from a celebrity gossip magazine long enough to register them and write a cash receipt. Paul didn't bother to inquire as to her opinion of a decent place to get a meal. What could she know about decent food? He also resented the way she tried to ignore him but grinned sensually several times at Johnny. Low-class slut.

  A quarter-mile back they’d driven through several blocks of bars, pawn shops, massage parlors and other pursuits of low-class bottom feeders. The on-street parking spaces were full and off-street parking appeared sparse to nonexistent. As they drove past the grouping of businesses, Johnny pointed and cried out, "There!" A car's lights flashed on at the back of a long, narrow off-street parking lot between two old red brick buildings. Paul backed up and entered the unlit area as the vacating car passed by them. He grunted and complained as he jockeyed the big van into the tight space left by the compact car and then shut off the engine.

  "Come on, Grandpa, I'm starving." Johnny was in a good mood as he left the van slamming the door shut.

  Paul grabbed his red, lightweight St. Louis Cardinals nylon jacket from behind the seat. He'd forgotten about the heavy pistol on its right side. With a shrug, he slipped it on and got out of the truck. He locked it and then nonchalantly walked to the back end.

  Johnny waited behind the van under dim light filtering in from the street. Paul noticed two scruffy characters shuffling toward them. Mid to late twenties he guessed. Both were slightly hunched forward as if trying to be invisible. At five feet away, the heavyset one waved a piece of metal rod, a tire iron or pipe maybe.

  The thin, long-haired young man tried to sound tough, "Give us your money, old man, and you won't get hurt." Paul thought of the four thousand dollars’ cash in his billfold. He grunted disdainfully. No way were these scummy thugs going to intimidate him.

  Johnny stepped forward with his fists clenched. "Leave us alone; Grandpa isn't giving you anything."

  The heavier thug swung the weapon at Johnny's head, but Johnny ducked and evaded the blow. He tripped and grunted as he fell backward onto the gravel.

  The other thug advanced on the old man. Paul's right hand slipped into his jacket pocket and his palm and fingers grasped the handgun. The thug grabbed him roughly by his jacket and pushed him backward against the trunk of a car. He cocked his right hand to throw a punch at the defenseless looking geriatric.

  Paul saw Johnny scurry backward on his heels and elbows like a crawfish as the thug over him smiled blandly and raised his weapon.

  Paul wore a Sardonicus grin as he pulled the trigger on the .38 caliber revolver in his jacket pocket. Both thugs froze in place, surprised by the loud blast, both fearful of being shot.

  The man holding Paul's jacket released his grip as a second lead slug blasted into his guts. His friend and accomplice dropped his improvised weapon, turned on his heel, and sprinted toward the street. The wounded man held both hands to his stomach to staunch the flow of blood and staggered backward between two parked cars.

  "Aw, man, why'd you do that," he said.

  Paul removed the gun from his jacket, sighted and pulled the trigger a third time hitting the man in the chest. The grievously injured man collapsed on the gravel lot, moaned, shuddered, deflated like a ruptured blow-up party doll and lay still. Johnny rose from the gravel, concern etched on his face.

  "Johnny," Paul calmly uttered. "Are you okay?" Johnny nodded. "Get back in the van. We can't stay here." He put his thumb against the thin man's neck searching for a sign of life. There was no pulse. He dragged the dead body further between the two cars and left it. The piece of black iron pipe lay five feet away. Paul retrieved it and tossed it in the van behind his seat.

  Johnny's lips moved as he stared at his Grandpa. No words erupted to convey his feeling of pride for what he had just witnessed. He knew Grandpa had saved both of them from a beating by the two thieves. He grinned proudly as he entered the van and closed the door.

  Paul breathed heavily as he maneuvered the van out of the tightly packed lot. It took more time than Paul liked because he was eager and impatient to escape. The police may have been called and could arrive at any time. Then again, he suspected gunshots in that neighborhood could be a common nightly occurrence. The effects of his exertion and the adrenalin rush hit him all at once.

  Across the street from a bar and grill, and four spaces ahead, a car pulled away from the curb. Paul worked the long van into the vacated parking spot then removed the jacket with burn holes emanating through the right pocket. After being reloaded, the revolver went in his right pants pocket; the tails of his dress shirt would cover the bulge when untucked. The spread fingers of his right hand pushed through his pristine hairdo several times, mussing it badly. The bar looked to still be crowded, so they wouldn't stand out and be noticed. He was glad they had both dressed down to Levi’s and short sleeved shirts for the all-day drive.

  Assorted music styles and crowd noise from several bars assaulted them as they emerged from the van. Johnny pointed and headed for the one he preferred. Inside, a four-piece band played rock music from a cramped stage near the middle of the left wall while couples danced on a scarred hardwood floor in front of them. Fried food, beer and sweat smells assailed their senses Paul and Johnny skirted the dance floor looking for an empty table. The noise was almost overwhelming to Paul.

  Four empty beer bottles sat on a Formica-topped table in the back, but there were no other signs it was occupied. As they
sat, a harried, middle-aged waitress appeared and took their orders as she cleared the table. Her skimpy top and shorts were stained with beer and food drippings. They were near a hallway to the restrooms and the putrid odor of urine occasionally floated their way as the bathroom doors fanned open and closed. One at a time they quickly made use of the fetid john.

  Paul sighed, read the menu posted on the wall and relaxed as he accepted their need to be in the current surroundings. Their encounter with the thugs in the parking lot had ignited an adrenalin rush the likes of which he'd never experienced. His right hand dropped off the table top to rest on his right thigh. The hard metal under his hand conveyed a sense of power and safety. He smiled as he gloated in the knowledge that even old farts could take care of themselves if they had the right equalizer. His features stiffened. Murder. It wasn't something he'd ever contemplated committing. His position and lifestyle had discounted that possibility from the day he was born. No one in his position would ever be involved in killing another human being, not directly anyway. That was what hired assassins were for. But why then had he even purchased the revolver years ago? Perhaps he was mentally prepared to pull the trigger and only needed the proper provocation to give him reason to react. Johnny's head bobbed and weaved as he followed the music's beat with finger taps on the table top. The waitress set their beers on the table and said their burgers and fries would be up shortly. A siren wailed and warbled as a police car sped by the bar. Seconds later the siren shut down. Paul surmised the dead man had been found and reported.

  As they ate their food, Johnny commented that it was good. Paul had to agree the food was tasty either because it really was good or he was extra hungry from their all-day drive. When they left, he bought an outrageously priced twelve pack of beer to take with them to their room.

  Fifteen minutes later they were in the rundown motel in a rundown section of town. Paul used the poor excuse for a bathroom first. The shower was grimy and stained. The towels were dingy and threadbare, and the carpet in the main room looked greasy. He still felt dirty and wondered how ignorant, low-income people lived their whole lives in such squalor. Ignorance. That must be the key. With below average intelligence, they lacked the motivation to succeed and accepted whatever befell them. So far, the trip had been a valuable learning experience for him. He'd never intentionally mingled with low-class people for any appreciable period of time and never would again if given a choice. But if future actions demanded it, he knew he could sink to the occasion.

  Paul popped the bathroom door open and stepped out from the vapor cloud quickly. Johnny sat at the end of his bed, hunched over, staring intently at the TV. Paul heard the type of background music he'd heard several times before as his grandson turned toward him with an embarrassed deer in the headlights look. Johnny grabbed behind him for the remote as Paul strode to him in long, hurried steps. He sat next to Johnny. "It's alright. You don't need to be ashamed because you're watching that. It's natural for men to watch sex films." He hesitated momentarily. "Do you like it?"

  Johnny nodded but wouldn't face his grandfather. Paul saw enough of the cheap film to know it was from the sleazy porno group referred to as hump ‘em and pump ‘em films. "You can finish this film, take your shower and then watch one more. Then we need to get to sleep. We have a big day tomorrow and need to be well rested." As an afterthought, he offered, "If you want another beer or two, that's okay, too."

  Paul lay in bed drinking a beer and listening to the thumping music as it mimicked the monotonous pumping action. At the stag parties he'd attended over the years, the quality of the films was much better and the stars were pretty. Some even bordered on being beautiful and all had ungodly tits. He glanced at his grandson. Johnny was engrossed in the primal acts. Another man entered the scene and positioned himself in front of the young, plump girl’s mouth. As Paul rolled over to go to sleep, he hoped he wasn't harming Johnny by letting him watch the XXX rated films. What the hell, Johnny was a grown man, and besides he'd watched them and turned out alright.

  The next morning at ten, they emerged from their room ready to eat again. Johnny didn't say much but grinned widely throughout breakfast and stared salaciously at their young, plump waitress.

  Noon found them fed, the van fueled, the incriminating St. Louis Cardinal's jacket disposed of and the search for their victim's home underway.

  The Bateman/Maisuria mini-mansion sat on a ridge above the city with a view of the downtown area, Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains to the far west. The house was barely visible through the lush vegetation extending from the wrought iron fence to near the house. All he could tell as they drove past the house site was that it was large and the exterior was wood.

  A problem Paul hadn't anticipated reared its ugly head. A six-foot-high wrought iron fence surrounded the property. Double motorized gates at the entrance were the only way in or out. Simply driving down the concrete driveway was not an option. He'd planned to kidnap the couple long after dark descended, but that misguided scenario wouldn't work. He needed a reason for them to open the gate and admit them. He cursed in silence. How would they breach the fence without causing a scene?

  They continued up the winding street, he in deep thought, Johnny thumping along to the music pulsing through the ear buds. Dense stands of conifer trees encroached to the edge of the bituminous road surface. Johnny had asked earlier why those pine trees didn't all look alike. Paul patiently replied that they could be different species, like pine, spruce or hemlock. That seemed to satisfy the man-child. Most of the lush yards in the expensive neighborhood had planting beds with a wide variety of beautiful blooming flowers.

  Paul smiled openly and grunted. Flowers. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier? What woman didn't relish receiving bouquets of fresh cut flowers, especially from a secret loyal supporter? That would be their invitation to enter Jewel Bateman's confinement. Once again, he was proud his superior intelligence rose to meet the need.

  He located a florist shop, placed an order and was assured the extravagant three-hundred-dollar floral arrangement would be ready by three that afternoon. With time on their hands they stopped for lunch. They weren't dressed for Daniel's Broiler but found a more common place three blocks from the waterfront. Two glasses of white wine for Paul and two beers for Johnny washed their broiled seafood sampler platters down quite nicely. Paul was amused at the lecherous glances Johnny cast at the cute, skimpily dressed waitress. Evidently last night's porno images were deeply embedded in the boy's fertile mind.

  At a convenience store, they bought enough drinks and food for four people to last until they were back home. The large cooler behind the driver's seat was almost full when water was drained and the ice was replenished. Once they were on the road they would drive straight through to St. Louis and only stop for fuel and bathroom breaks. Their prisoners would become a problem requiring close supervision. Restraining them after each break would take precious time, but there was no other option. Paul couldn't imagine putting up with putrid smells for hours on end if the captives weren't allowed to routinely empty their bladders and bowels outside the van.

  When they arrived for the floral pickup, Paul saw a huge, gorgeous flower arrangement sitting in a cooler and hoped it was theirs. Instead of signing the offered card, he placed the blank card in his pocket, saying he'd write the greeting himself later. At the back of a small deserted park, they changed into new, dark blue, common workman's clothing.

  The sun was still vivid at five fifteen when the van stopped at the wrought iron gates and parked beside the speaker. Paul leaned through the driver's door window opening and pressed the “speak” button. He waited, then pressed the button again. Apprehension set in as he pushed the button a third time. The victims were supposed to be in there; why didn't they answer? Were they not home?

  Suddenly a woman's loud voice jarred him. "Who's there? What do you want?"

  "Got a delivery from Evans Floral for…Ms. Jewel Bateman." Silence permeated the van as he wait
ed.

  After long seconds, the woman asked, "Who's it from?" Her sharp voice grated on his senses and caused him to sneer at her.

  Paul did his best to talk down. Impatience dripped as he said, "Wait a minute, lady, I'll have to look." He leaned back between the seats for ten seconds in case he was on camera. "Just says from a secret loyal supporter. Sure is a beautiful arrangement. Huge too."

  He heard a loud click then the sound of motors and dragging noises as the wrought iron gate sections rolled apart.

  The gates smoothly closed behind them as Paul drove along the concrete driveway. The house appeared as they exited a right curve. It was mostly stained wood, modern two stories, lots of windows with single-level wings on each end. A circular turnaround with a monumental fountain dominated the center of the area in front of the entrance to the house. The fountain was dry, and no other vehicles were parked in sight. Landscape plantings were overgrown and most hadn't received attention in several months. Paul stopped in front of the entrance door, and then patted his pocket to assure himself the revolver was there. He was starting to rely on the weapon always being available. Its presence felt comforting. He closed his eyes momentarily before forging ahead. A fanny pack over his belt buckle stored all the other items he envisioned they'd need. He looked at Johnny. "Ready?" Johnny didn't speak but nodded. "Remember, you're Cain and I'm Abel."

  The woman who answered the door on the first ring appeared to be in her early to mid-fifties, overweight, about five foot four inches. Unruly bleached blonde hair with dark roots showing and a face devoid of makeup made a poor statement. Shorts let him see the security bracelet around her thick right ankle. She looked dejected but curious about the delivery. As Johnny awkwardly extracted the floral arrangement from the back of the van, she smirked pleasantly with approval at the surprise bouquet.