Bullet Beach (5 page)

Before leaving the east side in a battered old blue Trooper, Cross drove by Wilbert Morgan's place on Drexel. Wilbert wasn't home. Neither was anyone else. He slipped his business card in the door after writing ‘call me' on the front above his name. Maybe the man found a way to go south without his car.

Cross stopped by the market on 56th and Illinois to pick up some food as he headed home. He was cautious walking up the steps and on the path that eventually led to a ramshackle gate and the fenced inner yard of his strange home. It was a place built in 1929 as a chauffeur's quarters. The large two-car garage was now a living room. The middle room was Cross's office and someone, over the years added a bedroom. The walls of the original structure were thick clay tiles. The roof was tile as well. It stayed surprisingly cool in the summer.

Casey, the dog, and Einstein the cat had made themselves comfortable and were surprisingly nonchalant about getting fed. Casey went out in the yard, sniffed around, did his business and came back in where it was cooler. Einstein nibbled at his food and found a sunny spot on the sofa in the middle room.

Cross used his landline to call his folks.

‘Hello Mom,' he said, feeling like he was twelve again.

‘Howie, everything all right?'

‘Sure. How are you guys?'

‘Nothing changes here, you know,' she said.

‘Is Maya there?'

‘She's napping. Should I wake her?'

‘No. She probably needs the rest.'

‘You OK?' she pressed.

‘Of course, just touching base.'

‘See you this weekend,' she said.

‘Yes. Give Maya my love and you and dad.'

‘If you need anything let me know.'

Cross hung up, realizing he'd called not to give them reassurance but to get it for himself. It had been a rough couple of years and now any thought that the bad times were over had to be dismissed. Even so, he was a little ashamed. His mother and dad had their own problems. What was left of their farm seemed to be crumbling around them.

As he took his long, hot shower, he vowed he would work harder putting things back in shape during his weekend visits. This afternoon, after catching a few hours of sleep stolen from him by the sounds of jail, he'd do his best to find out what he could about the young victims.

The night was long. Time was screwed up. Shanahan seemed to be battling with sleep and unsure of which side he was on. Twice it was the rain that awakened him. Even over the hum of a rattling air conditioner, he heard the sometimes steady beat of heavy rain and then a sudden tumult, wind whipping, so that the drops smacked against the glass doors.

And there was Maureen in her guiltless sleep, no doubt basking in the scents of turmeric, garlic, coriander, chilies, garlic and lime leaves.

The third time he was thrust back into consciousness it was the quiet that did it. The rain stopped. He got out of bed, looked out of the window, but saw nothing, just darkness. Not a handwringer by nature, Shanahan second-guessed little. Maybe it was the idea that when he had only his life on the line his world was balanced. Now, not only must he protect Maureen and not lose her, he must also protect himself. Losing his life would lose her as well. It was all part of second-guessing the wisdom of this potential misadventure. All of that weighed upon him in a night that had finally grown silent.

When the light came and Maureen gave up her luxurious sleep, Shanahan's mood lightened considerably. He had already showered, leaving the bathroom to her. While she prepared for the day, he brought coffee up from the restaurant several floors below. He waited on the balcony, looking at the foreign view – rooftops of older buildings, some with gardens, some with clothing out on lines, and some bare. High rises randomly popped up on the landscape.

Maureen came out of the bath, the hotel's white terrycloth robe wrapped around her. It couldn't hide her voluptuousness.

‘I feel better,' she said, toweling her auburn hair. ‘What's the plan?'

‘We'll know soon. Channarong will meet us in the restaurant. He'll tell us what he knows and we'll go on from there.'

The restaurant, on the mezzanine above the busy lobby, was sunny and cheerful. There were three stations in the dining area where food was served. A slender young man was behind one station, willing to make you an omelet or pancakes. Another station provided a selection of fruit, juices and coffee or tea. Another had shelves of various pastries. If one were seeking the mysteries of the orient, the exotic food from ancient Siam, this wasn't the place. All of this could have taken place in Kokomo, Indiana. But it was the complimentary breakfast that came with the room – all too reasonable.

Channarong showed up half way through the scrambled eggs and coffee. He gave a slight, almost prayerful bow to Maureen.

‘Would you like something?' Maureen asked him.

‘I had some food with the family earlier,' he said, putting a manila folder on the table and sitting down.

‘How did you sleep?'

‘Very well,' Maureen said.

‘It will take a day or two to adjust to the time and the temperature,' Channarong said.

‘You found something?' Shanahan asked.

‘The last thing the police and the courts have on Fritz Shanahan is what you pulled from the Internet story. He is wanted for questioning, but it isn't something they are likely to spend time on.'

‘The arrest? What was that about?'

‘Rubies.'

‘Rubies?' Maureen's eyes widened. ‘Well, thank God it's not drugs.'

Channarong nodded. ‘That would be worse from a police perspective. However, it can be dangerous. From what I understand – and I am not an expert in these matters – the money in ruby smuggling is getting the rubies out of Burma, or Myanmar if you prefer. This does not make the officials in Burma happy and they are not kind people.'

‘How do we get the scent?' Shanahan said, but it was as much a question to himself as it was to anyone else.

‘Ruby dealers, perhaps,' Maureen said.

‘And how do we find them? You know any ruby dealers?' Shanahan asked Channarong.

‘I know where they are. They are near Chinatown. Rubies can be found in stores on Mahesak Road.'

‘Rubies have their own street?' Maureen asked.

‘More or less,' Channarong smiled. ‘You find gold on Yaowarat Road, diamonds on Silom, silver on Charoen Krung and the colored stones on Mahesak. They are all near each other.'

‘Handy,' Shanahan said.

‘Thailand is a center for expensive gems,' Channarong said.

‘So Fritz is in the heart of it,' Shanahan said, wondering what his sibling had become.

‘Let's go shopping,' Maureen said.

The taxi provided some sane relief – cooler, quieter. The driver appeared sane too, driving civilly on busy, clattering streets, past beehive crowded sidewalks. Buses, taxis, tuk-tuks, cars, scooters, motorcycles kept the air full of sound and carbon monoxide. At first it was difficult to see how the neighborhoods changed as they drove along. They all seemed alike, which made it difficult for Shanahan to get his bearings. Chinatown presented some difference. Many of the signs were in Chinese, very different from the more script-like Thai.

Passing through on a wide thoroughfare, he could look down the shady narrow streets and alleys that branched off and see activity. The driver and Channarong spoke to each other in pleasant sing-song tones. The weather? Politics? He looked at Maureen. Her eyes focused outside on the world she was passing through. She had never really traveled, Shanahan recalled. What travel she had done was with him – Hawaii, California and one year a daring trip to Italy. Nothing like this.

She seemed to sense his looking at her, thinking about her. She turned and smiled. She was happy. He was not surprised. She was not worried or afraid. She was brave and curious.

Mahesak Road turned out to be a bust. The jewelers in the top shops either knew nothing or pretended to know nothing of any Fritz Shanahan and certainly their business was above board. The smaller jewelers, located in an area known as the Gem Center, seemed a little frightened at the questions. They knew nothing about anything. And they quickly excused themselves to take care of other business. At Shanahan's urging, he and Channarong spoke to everyone who worked there.

‘You are dogged,' Channarong said. ‘Is that a correct way of saying?'

‘Oh yes,' Maureen said. ‘He is dogged.' She smiled at Shanahan. ‘Personally, I think it's charming. I'm fond of dogs.'

‘I didn't expect anyone to have any information,' Shanahan said.

‘Why did we do this?' Channarong was taking his measure of the old detective.

‘To let them know someone is here. Someone is asking about him and about the dirty side of the business.'

‘Some one who knows something will find you.' Channarong said.

Shanahan nodded.

‘What is the schedule, Mr Shanahan?'

‘Temples. Let's go look at temples.'

Channarong nodded. ‘I never tire of it,' he said without a song in his voice.

‘Food,' Maureen said. ‘Let's not forget lunch.'

FIVE

Cross slept until darkness. The length and depth of his sleeping surprised him. And it was only the knock on his door that awakened him. He slipped on his jeans and flicked on lights as he headed for the front door. The light on the front porch illuminated the handsome face of Lieutenant Ace Collins.

‘We've had somebody waiting out there to tail you,' Collins said, stepping in. ‘But you never came out. I thought you had slipped out through a secret passage.'

‘Who said I didn't?' Cross said, slipping into his bedroom to retrieve a shirt. Casey, who had met Collins before, sniffed the policeman's hand and went away satisfied. ‘I could have come and gone several times through a tunnel I have to the liquor store.'

‘I expected you to be more proactive.'

‘Proactive,' Cross shook his head.

‘I know. I use words like ‘proactive,' and ‘synergetic,' as well as ‘my team.' It makes me the professional I am. Anyway, I am glad but surprised you're not out there stirring things up. You are still a suspect. Is it because you know who did it?'

‘I fell asleep.'

‘As simple as that?'

‘As simple as that. Have you identified the victims?'

‘The male is Marshall Talbot. The female? We don't know yet.'

‘It was a fancy shotgun,' Cross said.

‘It was. A Merkel 303E. Real silver engraving. Worth five thousand to ten thousand dollars, I'm told.'

It didn't make sense to Cross. It was all set up for the repo guy to take the fall and that seemed to mean losing the shotgun was part of the plan. That was an expensive throwaway.

‘And it was empty, right?'

‘Yep,' Collins said.

‘Is that why you're being so nice to me?'

‘You've got some friends downtown. Swann says you're a smartass but honest. Pretty much the same thing from Rafferty. Says he owes you one, whatever that means.'

‘I've got some enemies too.'

‘Even higher up. You are not universally loved. You and your pal Shanahan seem to have a problem with authority.'

‘I'd be happy to have that on my gravestone.'

‘I'll make a note of it,' Collins said. He sat, minding the creases in his expensive pants, in the only seat available other than the one behind the desk. ‘So, if we assume you are innocent, then somebody either wanted to set someone up for the fall or they wanted to set
you
up for the fall. You have enemies who have it in for you that much?'

Cross thought for a moment. ‘I don't think anybody hates me so much they would kill two people just for me to take a fall. But if someone had to kill someone and needed someone to take the fall, maybe they'd remember me.'

‘I could do with a list.'

‘I think they're all dead.'

‘You that tough?'

Cross didn't answer.

‘Could be an accident of timing,' Collins continued. ‘But how would they know someone was set to pick up the Lincoln and when?'

‘Wilbert who owned the Lincoln maybe. And Edelman who wanted it back,' Cross sat on the edge of the desk.

‘But it wasn't about the Lincoln,' Collins said.

‘No. You wouldn't think so.'

‘What about Slurpy?'

‘Slurpy didn't know where we were going until we got there. What kind of pressure you under?'

Collins smiled.

‘Does it show?'

‘Top city homicide cop,' Cross said, looking at his watch, ‘working late and pretending he's not in a hurry. The victim is a VIP?'

Collins nodded. ‘Marshall Talbot is the son-in-law of Raymond Taupin.'

‘Chief asshole in city politics, business bloodsucker,' Cross said, ‘Or so I've heard.'

Collins nodded again.

‘And the girl in the trunk is not Mrs Talbot.' Cross said.

Collins nodded still again, this time with a big smile.

‘You are in for it,' Cross said.

‘No,
we're
in for it. You and me. Mr Taupin wants your ass.'

Before Collins left, he gave Cross both a blessing and a caution. The lieutenant was willing to look the other way if Cross wanted to do a little investigating on his own. That would make it easier for Cross to do what he intended to do anyway. The caution itself was two-fold. Don't embarrass the police and be very, very careful of Raymond Taupin. Very powerful people would do his bidding because if they didn't they would lose their power.