BENNINGTON P.I. “BONITA” (7 page)

My job is to keep you out of jail Mr. Bennington.  Your job is to find out who’s trying to put you there.”

9.

After Stanislov left, I sat down and thought through my options.  I considered the possibility that if Walt was in fact dead, there might have been something in the news about it, so I sat down in front of my way past its expiration date laptop and did a quick Internet search, pulling up the following headline and story from a local media website:

Gangplank Marina resident found dead of apparent suicide.

Walter Till, aged 78, was found dead inside of his home this morning by authorities responding to reports of gunfire late last night.  According to a brief statement from Washington D.C. police, a neighbor boarded Mr. Till’s boat and found the man unresponsive, and then called 911.

Authorities indicated suicide as a possible cause of death, though also confirmed an investigation is still ongoing.

Knowing how excited Walter was over the prospect of working together on another case, the idea of him killing himself seemed highly unlikely.  That meant he was murdered, leaving me to figure out who and why.

My cell phone rang.  It was Stanislov.

“Mr. Bennington, I have a bit of information for you regarding your friend’s death.”

I was still staring at the headline on my laptop screen.

“Yeah, just read about it myself.”

The attorney then offered me up something I didn’t know yet – something that left me more than a little uncomfortable.

“The gun used to kill your friend had your finger prints on it Mr. Bennington.  Just his prints, and yours.”

Shit.  The damn gun Walter had handed me.  No wonder the cops were so far up my ass this morning.

“You still there Mr. Bennington?”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

“Yeah, I’m here.  He wanted me to have that gun, but I gave it back.”

I noted that despite what most would consider pretty damning evidence, Stanislov remained both calm and even upbeat.

“That’s fine Mr. Bennington.  While it complicates matters for us a bit, the fact is, if the police thought your fingerprints were enough, they would have arrested you already.  Until then, you find out as much as you can about what happened, and I’ll continue to try and find out as much information on my end.”

I thanked the attorney for the call and then stared down at the news report of Walt’s death again, wondering who would have wanted him dead. Clearly the timing of our meeting, and his demise, were likely linked.  I also had to consider that I wasn’t being set up – that my fingerprints on the gun was simply bad luck.  If Walt was murdered with that gun, the person or persons responsible might not have known I had been holding it earlier.

Then again, maybe they did know.  Maybe they were watching Walt’s place, knew who I was, the details of whatever case he was working on, and decided to shut the old guy up for good, and get me sent to prison as well.

I had a lot more questions than answers at this point, and that tended to piss me off, especially when it involved the cops eyeing me as possible suspect for murder.

Were there any clues from last night’s conversation?  Did Walt say or do anything that might give me some answers?

He asked if I was sure about working with him on the case, a case that he insisted could either make or break me.  He said it was everywhere – that it was global, that the client needed help releasing “it”, whatever it was.  After I said yes to the case, Walt was going to report back to the client that we were in, and then let me know what was coming next.  So that left me wondering who the hell this client was?  Maybe he or she was already dead, just like Walt. 

A car drove past outside, one of those little hopped up rice burner jobs that the kids love so much these days.  The car’s stereo must have been set to eleven, because the damn bass was actually vibrating inside my apartment.  It was that rap shit.  I could here the singer yelling out the word nigger over and over, with the occasional shout out to some otherwise nameless bitches and hoes thrown in for good measure.

It was a long ways off from a Sinatra tune, that’s for sure.

One of my favorites!  Sinatra!  A song called Bonita. He recorded it with Tom Jobim in the late 60’s. I used to dance to this one with a woman I dated almost forty years ago.  She gave me the album as a gift and I’ve kept it ever since.  It might be the most valuable thing I own!  Very rare!  Whenever I feel lost, Bonita seems to help me find my way back to myself.

Walt’s words echoed in my mind loud enough to drown out the horrible rap music from outside.  Son-of-a-bitch!  Could he have been leaving me a clue in case something happened to him?

It might be the most valuable thing I own!  Very rare!  Whenever I feel lost, Bonita seems to help me find my way back to myself.

I remembered Walt playing the song again when I was leaving the marina after meeting with him last night.

Whenever I feel lost, Bonita seems to help me find my way back to myself.

I needed to get back over to Walt’s boat and find that album.  If my hunch was right, there was something there to help me start figuring out what the hell was going on.  That meant I had to find a way out of my apartment without the cops knowing.  The last thing I needed was the police following me around D.C.

There was a small window above the kitchen sink of my apartment that I eyed carefully, wondering if I could manage to fit myself through.  Six months ago there would have been no way, but the newly improved, leaner version of me might just pull it off.  I made sure the front door was locked, turned on some lights and the television, and then grabbed a chair and set it under the window.

I won’t say I made it through that window easy, but I sure as shit made it through, and at the end of the day, that’s all the score’s gonna say, right? I made it through.  I just about passed out, had a moment of mess my pants panic when I sat stuck halfway out, with my legs dangling over the sink and the other half of me pointing outside, but then, slowly, I squirmed my way further out until my hands came to rest on the concrete ground below.  I gave a final kick with my legs and did this sort of half roll move and ended up back on my feet standing outside. 

Part of me wished someone was there to see it.  I’m pretty sure I actually looked like I knew what I was doing. Not too bad for a sixty four year old, borderline diabetic with a pacemaker.  James Bond has nothing on me!

The name’s Bennington.  Frank Bennington.

My self satisfaction at having dropped so impressively from my kitchen window was cut short by a neighbor’s barking dog.  The noise startled me enough that I stepped backwards and then tripped over a half inch drop in the poured concrete pad I was standing on.

Maybe that James Bond reference was a bit premature.

The back of the apartment complex was a narrow strip of greenery bordered by a chain link fence behind which a narrow alleyway ran the length of the complex.  I walked a few hundred yards down the ally, and then back onto a main street.  It took about five minutes to hail a cab and begin making my way back to the Gangplank Marina where inside, I would find Walt’s Chris Craft and then hopefully, a clue as to who was responsible for his death.

Walt had warned this case could make or break me.

I guess it was time to find out.

10.

Standing outside the Chris Craft, I looked around to see if I had been followed.  Seeing nothing, I quickly went up the side steps and moved to the back entrance of the old yacht.  Yellow crime scene tape covered the sliding door, and the table with the coffee canister full of spent cigarette butts I had noticed yesterday, now lay on its side, leaving a pile of tobacco ash scattered across the back deck.

The sliding door was unlocked, allowing me to simply slip beneath the unbroken police tape as I made my way inside the boat.  The smell of a discharged gun still permeated the close confines of the Chris Craft’s interior, combining with the familiar scent of aged wood, seawater, and cigarettes. 

The place was a mess.  Books were thrown about the salon area, the couch cushions were torn apart, the fridge door, and several cupboards hung open, and even some of the interior carpeting had been ripped up.  Whoever had paid Walt a visit yesterday was looking for something.

The table with Walt’s record collection remained upright, though some of the album covers were strewn across the floor.  Most of the records were left untouched though.

I began sifting through the pile of album covers until I came to one with a serious looking and dapperly dressed Frank Sinatra staring back at me, with the words
Bonita
emblazoned in red across the top of the cover.  The cover appeared in good condition, as was the vinyl album inside.  There was no sign of any clue left by Walt though.

It wasn’t until I ran my fingers along the inside of the album cover that I felt a small, metallic bump, and something smooth and square neatly taped to the inside.  I gently pulled the square from the cover’s interior and removed it, staring down at a small black and white photograph behind which a single key was glued to.

The photograph was of a man who looked vaguely familiar to me, standing just outside one of the entrances to what appeared to be Union Station.  I stared closely at the photograph until finally recognizing the man in the picture. He was a former candidate for Congress almost twenty years ago. I had hired Walt to do some opposition research on him.

“Where are you leading me Walt?”

I spoke the words to no-one, and then closed my eyes, pushing my mind back to long ago memories of that campaign.  The man’s name was Jacob Talbot.  He lost the race, and then did some lobbying work for an environmental protection firm for a few years after that, and then as far as I know, he left Washington D.C. and returned to Ohio.

Glancing down again at the black and white photo, I confirmed my initial guess as to the location.  It was definitely D.C.’s Union Station, near the A Gate entrance where all of the bag lockers were located.  That would explain the key.

Walt had put something there in storage.  Something he wanted to hide from others, and for me to find.

I secured both the photograph and the key in one of the inner pockets of my jacket and looked outside one of the narrow salon windows and saw two men making their way quickly down the marina ramp toward the Chris Craft’s boat slip.  Both appeared to be in their 30’s, powerfully built, and looking very intent on whatever task they were up to.

I stepped quickly to the sliding door at the back of the salon and pushed the locking mechanism in place.  The men’s approaching footsteps could be heard just outside, as their shoes hit the concrete dock.

Where the hell can I hide?

Beyond the salon, toward the bow of the boat, was the area Walt had used as his bedroom.  It had a small bathroom on the right side adjacent to the single bed where inside, I found a stand up shower stall with a single curtain that separated the shower area from the rest of the bathroom.  Not the ideal place to hide out, but given I could both hear and feel the two men making their way onto the boat, I didn’t have much choice.

I pulled the shower curtain closed and stood as quiet as possible.  On the other end of the yacht, the sound of the men attempting to pull open the now locked salon door reverberated around me.  This was followed by the men’s footsteps gently vibrating the inside of the shower stall as they made their way down the yacht’s side walkway.

“You see anything?”

“No, nothing.  If he’s coming back here, I don’t think he’s done it yet.  Looks just like we left it yesterday.”

I didn’t recognize either of the two voices, but if they weren’t law enforcement, and they were here yesterday, that meant they were probably the ones who killed Walt.