Beer Money (A Burr Ashland Mystery) (12 page)

I thanked her, then went over to Ordell. Saw his eyebrows creep up an inch or so.

"Burr," he said, his voice soft.

"I thought you were asleep," I said. He straightened in the chair and stuck out his hand, which I shook. It enveloped mine. But his handshake was soft, as if he had nothing to prove.

"Naw, I'm just trying to...to deal with this shit. To cope, in some form of privacy," he said and took off his shades. His eyes were bloodshot.

"Why don't you go home?" I asked. "I'll hang out and call you if his condition changes."

He shook his head. Glanced at the clock on the wall. "Thanks, but some of the guys from the neighborhood are going to stop by in an hour or so. Fred meant...means...a lot to them." Ordell put his sunglasses back on and in their reflective surface, I could see CNN broadcasting information on the stock market.

"So what happened, Ordell? Were you there?"

I saw nothing in his face except the latest statistics on the Dow Jones. Blue chips were down. The tech sector was taking a pounding.

Ordell finally said, "No clue, man. I was supposed to pick him up at the studio. I came by, rang the bell, no answer. Went back there and found his ass put down on the ground. Blood all over his face." He gestured around his face, and his hand shook. "I thought for sure he was dead. The gun was in his hand. First time I ever saw a gun in his hand. Told the cops that. They didn't seem to believe me."

I nodded.

"They ran a check on me," he continued. Shook his head. "Man, when you're black and gay...Jesus Christ. Talk about double jeopardy. But I was clean. When they saw I didn't have a record, they like...lost interest. I guess it would be tougher for them to pin something on me, you know?"

"And the note?" I asked.

More silence. Now a commercial for toilet paper was playing on his sunglasses.

"The note." He looked up at me, I could only tell by his uplifted face. "Some fuck-ass note said you and Fred and Tim were all goin' at it, know what I mean? Said he killed Tim." Ordell laughed. A bitter laugh. "What kinda bullshit is this? Fred kill someone? That'd be like the Pope turning tricks down in the Core."

Twin tears rolled out from underneath his shades.

"Somebody wants something and is trying to set up Fred, that's all,” I said. “We both know none of it's true."

Ordell's attention seemed to linger on me for a bit longer than was comfortable. He shifted his feet. The awesome muscles in his shoulders seem to ripple on their own volition.

"Yeah," he said.

I would have liked him to say it with a little more conviction.

Twenty-Eight

Dusk was settling in by the time I made it to the Third Ward. Rush hour was coming to a close, road rage was tapering off as the sun finished its departure via the western skies.

I had decided that it was time to visit the place Tim had been murdered. I’d put it off for as long as I could. I’d hoped that the longer I waited, the less emotional I would feel. Maybe the more time that passed the smaller the knot in my stomach would be. But judging by the feeling in the pit of my gut, that theory wasn't working.

Finding the place wasn’t a problem. The stories in the paper had been specific, and Altenburg had told me the address as well.

I wheeled the Audi next to the curb in front of 1033 Erie. I gazed up at the building from the driver’s seat. Sitting, the third floor looked incredibly high. I yanked open the car door and stood. The wind had picked up, the air had a cold bite to it that had been absent earlier in the day. Despite the cold, my palms were sweaty. I felt a trickle of sweat roll down my back.

It was one of the many typically abandoned cream city brick edifices that survived, in a sense, the fire of 1896. It had probably been gutted and re-built for light manufacturing at some point around the turn of the century. But it had been poorly done, and was not slated for condo development like a lot of the older buildings in the Third Ward. This would be an eyesore until someone tore it down.

A sidewalk ran parallel to the building before winding its way around the southeast corner. From the street, I looked between the buildings and saw the crime scene tape attached to four posts, fluttering in the wind. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I walked forward, my feet crunching on the ice.

A few feet away, I stopped. In the middle of the cordoned off area, faint patches of red seemed to lurk in the patches of ice. It hadn’t warmed up enough to melt the blood away. Tim’s life force was trapped in the icy grips of winter.

I looked overhead and saw the broken window, a glimpse of the yellow crime scene tape as it flapped around the broken panes.

I backtracked down the sidewalk and went to the front door. It was padlocked, with a small warning label that read “Milwaukee Police Department.” I tugged on the door handle, but it was rock solid. I glanced around the deserted street, saw no one.

From my wallet I took the slim jimmy and slipped it into the padlock. I tested the guts of the lock, pinpointed the honey hole, withdrew the jimmy, crimped it, slipped it back in and watched as the padlock sprung open. I put the jimmy back in my wallet, and put my wallet back in my coat pocket. I slipped off the padlock, and hung it, still open, from the hook.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

It was a musty, dingy smell. Part mold, part rat droppings. The interior was demolished. Everywhere lay scrap lumber, chunks of plaster and old wiring. The lone structure was a weary staircase situated at the far end of the main room. I climbed them, my feet creaking with each step. I touched the warped banister and my hand came away thick with dust and grime.

At the second floor landing, I peeked out into a room similar to the first floor in that its only features were piles of scrap building materials. A small shadow darted from one corner of the room. Either a large rat or a small cat.

Orienting myself to the layout of the building, I climbed higher until I reached the third floor.

The sun dipped below the horizon and what little light was left diminished quickly from the area. I pulled a pen light from my jacket and shined it up ahead. I oriented myself so I faced the north side of the building and then looked for the crime scene tape.

I walked forward, guided in part by the flashes of yellow I saw ahead in the small beam of my penlight, as well as by the sound of the tape fluttering in the wind.

I was no more than five feet away from the boarded up window when I heard the sound of plaster being ground behind me. Squashed by a foot.

I made the move to duck and turn, but then I felt my head bounce forward as a funny feeling buzzed its way down my spine.

I sank to my knees and saw three men encircle me. Two were in back, one was in front. The one in front was a big man. His black pants and black sweater hugged a large upper body. In the darkness of both the room, and the fog that was enveloping me, I could only make out vague shapes.

"Hey-" I said.

The man in front lifted his foot and before I could think to duck he kicked me in the head. Bright lights flashed before my eyes and I flew backward where my skull cracked against something very, very hard. Rough hands picked me up by the back of the shirt. A giant fist came out of nowhere and crashed across my jaw. Stars exploded in my head. A piece of tape went across my mouth. Another piece went across my eyes.

I was dragged across the floor then thrown down the stairs headfirst.

By the time I reached the bottom step, everything had gone black.

Twenty-Nine

A loud bang woke me from unconsciousness; another clang echoed around me and I tried to sit up, my head screaming in pain with the effort. My head felt too big for my body. Stabs of pain took turns announcing themselves. I felt like a pregnant woman trying to take deep breaths between contractions.

I couldn't move much if I tried. A sudden thought chilled me: Is this what happened to Tim? A rage burned through me and I struggled against the cords to no avail. They certainly knew how to tie someone up. They were craftsmen, exhibiting a painstaking attention to detail.

The metal against which my head was pressed was cool, and through it I could feel the vibrations of an engine. I was in a van. We hit a pothole and my head bounced off the floor.

I heard no voices coming from the front of the van, no radio, and no music. I may have passed out because seemingly seconds later the van came to a sudden halt and doors slammed again, then the rear door was opened and I was dragged from the back of the van, pulled out and dropped onto the asphalt. My forehead scraped raw. They shut the van doors, jerked me to my feet and pulled me until I heard the sound of a door being unlocked. It was thrown open, and I was pushed through then tossed down yet another set of stairs. The terrifying feeling of the ground flying out from beneath me unnerved me and I braced myself as much as possible, but the steps were cement and they crashed into my chest, the wind knocked from me once again.

As I gasped for air and felt blood trickle from my nose, I heard laughter behind me.

Blood seeped from my nostrils and as it did so, the smell of sour bread came to my nose. No, it wasn't bread. It was yeast.

I rose to my knees, my forehead pressed against the cement floor, its pebbled surface raked the soggy mess that was my face.

A hand grabbed the back of my shirt. I was dragged across the floor until my head rammed into a metal pole. I heard the sound of hard-soled shoes climbing a short ladder above me, and then I was heaved and pulled upward by the neck and belt. My wind was cut off until I was dropped onto a steel mesh platform.

Hands now grabbed my ankles. I was slid off the platform and thrust underwater. I clamped my mouth shut just as the warm water raced over my face and up my body. I had held my breath instinctively but there hadn't been time to get a good breath and my air ran out quickly. I kicked, panicking. My heart beat a million miles an hour and I wanted to scream. With what little willpower I had left, I shot a quick burst of air from my lungs, barely managing to stop from inhaling. I stopped thrashing.

I was pulled out, sucking air and along with it, a mouthful of the water. It wasn't water, of course. But it wasn't beer, either. It was somewhere between the two.

Instead of bothering to take me back down the ladder, I was kicked off the platform. I landed awkwardly on my elbow and pain shot through my arm.

The hard-soled shoes came down the ladder and clacked across the cement floor to me. I was pulled across the floor, down another short flight of stairs, across another room and then suddenly stopped.

I was lifted and thrown into a chair. My legs were tied to the chair legs, my arms pulled behind me. The tape was stripped from my eyes; chunks of skin near my temples went with it.

The air felt cool, almost refreshing against my face. As my vision cleared, I saw a cement block wall. It had been painted white at one point, but was now a dull, dirty taupe. The paint was peeling near the bottom.

A door shut behind me.

The only sound in the room was the drip-drip-drip of my clothing. I shifted in my chair, my wet ass squeaked in a puddle and I tried to break loose but once again, my hosts had been very thorough with the restraints.

The door opened behind me, and then closed again with just a whisper of sound. I heard a match struck and soon the smell of a cigarette reached my nose.

"Your friends call you Burr." The voice was deep and slightly aged.

I tried to make a stinging reply but when my vocal cords collided, the acidic burn of wort produced only a muted gargle in my throat.

I said, "No shit," but it came out garbled. I don't think he understood me.

"You have something I would like very much."

I heard him pace gently, the sound of slacks whishing gently against thigh, the soft fall of his shoes. I strained to get a better look at him, but he stayed behind me.

"Now," he said, "Why don't you save yourself a great deal of trouble, not to mention, pain, and tell me where it is."

"Who are you people?" I said, or more accurately, croaked.

"With so many issues in the world, Mr. Ashland, why don't you simply focus on the one I have brought to your attention. The one regarding the item for which I am looking."

"Speaking of issues, let's talk about human rights, the ACLU, citizens against battered and half-drowned men..."

The man sighed softly, then rapped twice on the door. It banged open and a hand grabbed my hair. I was then dragged, chair and all, out of the room, across the floor, up the stairs and back to the vat.

I was scared, and the adrenaline was pumping. The chair with me in it was hoisted up the ladder, flipped over and I was dunked into the water again. I did the same trick, but this time, they didn't let me up. I held my breath and stopped struggling, and still they didn't let me up. Wort ran up my nose and down the back of my throat. My stomach was clenched, I thrashed some more but couldn't get free.

I inhaled and felt water fill my lungs. I retched as the chair was jerked from the vat.