Hard Job Page 6
“Officer Mitchell, do you mind if we swing by the supermarket? I need to pick up a few things. I didn’t think about having someone else around and I think the fridge and pantry are pretty bare.”
“That’s not a problem, Mr. Bailey. I can pick up a few things too. You shouldn’t have to worry about feeding me while I’m around – I eat a lot!”
Toby gave a small grin at the Mitchell’s admission. “Oh, I think I can probably manage to feed us both. I make a great tuna casserole. It shouldn’t take too long to get what we need and then we can come back here. I live right upstairs in that building.” He pointed out his apartment and realized there might be a problem. “The only thing is, I live on the third floor and there isn’t an elevator.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Bailey,” Mitchell assured him. “I don’t mind taking the stairs. Hey, do you mind if we stop by my place so I can pick up some things?”
“No. I figured we’d need to do that sometime this evening. In fact, why don’t we stop there first? You’ll need to tell me how to get there.”
Mitchell gave Toby the directions and ten minutes later Toby pulled up in front of a small duplex.
“This looks pretty nice, Officer Mitchell. I didn’t even realize this neighborhood was here. Have you lived here long?”
“Thanks. I’ve been here about three years. Mr. Bailey.”
Toby decided all this formality was ridiculous. After all, this guy was going to be living with him for the foreseeable future and was certain to see him at his worst. “Officer Mitchell, since you’re going to be all up in my business over the next several days, I think you can stop with the ‘Mr. Bailey’ routine. Call me, Toby, please.”
Mitchell hesitated, and then gave a reluctant shake of his head. “I think Detective Reightman would have my head if I did that, sir.”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her – and do not, for any reason, keep calling me ‘sir’! It makes me feel old and feeble and I bet we’re close to the same age. In fact, you might even be a couple of years older.”
Mitchell decided Toby might have a point, but fair was fair. “Okay. But if I call you Toby, then you have to call me Anthony or, if you’d prefer, Mitchell. As long as were alone, that is. I really don’t want Detective Reightman on my ass.”
“It’s a deal. Do you prefer Anthony, or Mitchell?” Toby asked as the young cop unlocked the front door.
“Mitchell is fine. I never really cared for the name Anthony, and I hate the nickname Tony.” Mitchell made a sour face. “My middle name is even worse.” He opened the door and ushered Toby inside.
Toby took a quick look around, and was surprised to see the place looked comfortable and well put together. A leather sectional was accented with several bright throw pillows and there were a few nicely framed prints on the walls. It was not at all what he’d expected a cop’s home to look like. “This place is great, Mitchell! And just so you know, I don’t think Anthony’s a bad name at all. I kind of like it, but somehow, Mitchell suits you better. What’s your horrible middle name?”
Mitchell looked over his shoulder as they crossed through the small living room. “If I tell you, you have to swear not to tell anyone else.”
“Come on, Mitchell, it can’t be that bad.”
Mitchell didn’t answer, but turned back to him, waiting. Realizing what he was waiting for, Toby earnestly agreed. “Okay, I swear never to tell a soul. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Mitchell turned back around and mumbled on his way into the bedroom, “It’s Horatio.”
“Oh, man! I’m sorry. You’re right – that’s an awful name.
“Remember, you promised never to tell a soul!” Mitchell hollered back.
Toby poked around the living room, checking out the sound system and the books on the shelves. He could hear Mitchell rummaging around in back of the house, but decided he’d better stay in the living room. A few minutes later, Mitchell came out of the bedroom carrying a small duffle bag and a few hanging clothes. Toby stepped forward to take the bag, and then they were out the door and Mitchell was locking up.
The next stop was the grocery store, and Toby filled up a shopping basket. Mitchell tossed a few things in the basket, some of which made Toby cringe.
“Moon pies? How can you stand to eat those things?”
“I like ‘em! I got used to eating them in the dorm so I guess now they’re comfort food.”
Soon, they’d finished checking out and were back at the apartment. Toby made his famous tuna casserole, which Mitchell eyed suspiciously. “This is tuna casserole?”
“Yeah. Why? Don’t you like it?”
“Well, it sure isn’t what I expected.” Mitchell took a few more bites, and decided it wasn’t terrible, just very filling. “Good thing I’m going to be going up and down those stairs though. This stuff really sticks to the ribs.”
They ate dinner and sat out on the terrace for a while, talking about inconsequential things. Mitchell had a kind of bouncy energy, but in spite of that, was actually very good company. He reminded Toby of some kind of friendly dog – maybe a golden retriever – with his sandy golden hair, big brown eyes, and solid build.
After a couple of hours, Toby found himself yawning. “I’m beat,” he eventually said, standing and stretching. “You have to be pretty tired too.”
“Yeah, I am. Today was really intense, and I was worried about how things were going there for a while. Man! That Madame Zhou is something else! I wouldn’t want her gunning for me. She shredded those guys today.”
“Yeah, she is pretty intense sometimes, but she’s really very nice. I’ve gotten to know her over the last couple of weeks. I knew her a little before, and she’s done some legal work for me, but we never talked much. Over the last few weeks I’ve learned more about her and I really like her. She sure doesn’t put up with any bull.” He stretched again and headed inside. When he got to the French doors he stopped and looked back at Mitchell. “Are you coming in, or are you going to stay out here for a while?”
“I’m coming in. I’m your bodyguard, and where you go, I go too. At least, that’s how I think it works. I’ve never been a bodyguard before.”
“I’ve never been body-guarded before, so I guess we’re even. Just stay out of the bathroom when I’m in there!”
Toby brushed his teeth and changed into a pair of sleeping shorts. He’d just crawled under the sheets with the pillows propped behind his back when there was a knock on the bedroom door. “Toby?” Mitchell asked from just outside.
Toby got out of bed and opened the door. “Yeah?”
Mitchell brushed past him and stepped into the room, inspecting it thoroughly. He even checked the windows to make sure that they were securely locked and that there was no access from outside. He turned toward the big bed and nodded. “That’ll do,” he informed Toby.
Mitchell took off his shoulder holster and removed the gun, checking the safety. He placed it on the nightstand closest to the door and took off his shirt, which he folded and draped over the back of the chair placed near the bed. He sat down and started taking off his shoes and then his socks.
When he stood and unbuckled his belt, Toby snapped out of his daze. “Whoa there! What’re you doing?”
“Getting ready for bed,” Mitchell told him, very matter-of-factly. He stepped out of his pants and started folding them.
“What do you mean?” Toby asked, trying his best not to notice Mitchell’s well-built frame and the faint dusting of golden hair which covered his powerful legs and chest. “There’s a perfectly good bed in the guest room. I know it’s just a full size, but it should be comfortable.”
“Not gonna’ happen,” Mitchell informed him as he tossed his folded pants on the chair. He turned back to Toby, who realized the cop was now wearing only a snug-fitting pair of light blue boxer trunks – which left very little to the imagination. “If someone managed to get into the apartment without me knowing it, they could conceivably make it into this room. If yo
u needed help, I wouldn’t be able to make it here in less than a minute or two and a lot can happen in that time. Besides, I told you – where you go – I go.”
Toby took a deep breath, and forced himself to maintain eye contact, even though he was tempted to let his eyes roam to more interesting places. “Mitchell, I appreciate the thought and everything, but couldn’t we just stack cans in the hallway or something? That way, if someone got in, they’d make a lot of noise getting back here and give us plenty of warning.”
Mitchell considered the suggestion, but shook his head. “I don’t think you have enough cans to make a difference. But that was good thinking and it gives me another idea.” He shut the door and then pulled the chair over to it, and tilted it back slightly so the back leaned just under the door knob. Mitchell tested his arrangement by trying to open the door a few times, and then stepped away satisfied. “That won’t hold for long if someone really wants in, but it’ll give me some extra time. It is never a bad thing to have extra time in a situation like this. Remember that.” Mitchell walked back to the bed and started pulling back the covers. “You going to use all those pillows?” he asked as he eyed the stack on the opposite side of the king sized bed.
Toby struggled to keep his mind on other things while the nearly naked man moved a few pillows, causing the muscles of his torso to flex and shift. He forced his eyes back up to the cops face. “Mitchell, aren’t you worried about sleeping in here? I mean, you know I’m …gay.”
Mitchell stopped what he was doing and looked up. He gave Toby’s body – clad only in a mid-thigh pair of sleep shorts – a slow, deliberate once over, letting his eyes linger for a few seconds. “You’re good looking and all and you have a very nice body. I really like the happy trail, but frankly, you’re not my type.” Mitchell went back to pulling back the covers and then reached for a pillow. In mid-reach he caught Toby eyeing him and gave him a bad-boy grin. “I like ‘em ten years older than you, twenty pounds heavier, nice and furry, and I prefer my men to have a beard. If there’s a little silver in the beard and in the hair, that’s even better.”
Toby was speechless. He tried to get something to come out of his mouth but couldn’t. After a couple of tries he finally managed to stutter, “You’re….you’re….?”
“Yep, I’m a card carrying, cock loving homosexual,” Mitchell informed him agreeably as he climbed into the bed. He checked his reach toward the gun and moved it a little closer. “And before you ask, no, I’m not seeing anyone, but I do have my eye on a nice silver daddy. He thinks I’m too young for him, but I’m working on changing his mind. As far as the mechanics go, I’m versatile. Sometimes I pitch and sometimes I catch – depending on the guy I’m with. Beyond that, I haven’t experimented much, but I do keep an open mind.” He reached over and turned off the light on his side. “I think that should cover things – being this is our first night sleeping together and all. I think it’s best to keep some mystery in our relationship. If you have any more questions, I’ll probably answer them tomorrow – if I don’t have to shoot anyone tonight. So, climb into bed and get some sleep.” Mitchell lay down on the bed and pulled the sheet up to his chest
Toby closed his mouth, which had fallen wide open during Mitchell’s pretty exhaustive commentary. He walked over to his side of the bed and got in, wondering how he was every going to get to sleep now. He turned off the light and rolled over on his side with his back facing Mitchell. In the darkness, he heard the man a few feet away shift slightly in the bed
“Hey, Toby? You have an awfully nice ass, too – in addition to the happy trail. Good night.”
“Good night,” Toby responded, shell-shocked by the compliment. He tried to find a more comfortable position, trying not to disturb the man next to him. He listened to Mitchell breathe in and out, and soon his eyes grew heavy and he dropped gently down into slumber.
Sometime during the night, he woke, startled and afraid. Before he was even fully aware, Mitchell pulled him close to his body and whispered softly, “Go back to sleep, Toby. It was just a nightmare.”
“Sorry,” Toby mumbled, before he fell back to sleep.
Mitchell smiled in the darkness and pulled him closer, before his own eyes dropped shut again.
John Brown walked across the roofs of the Capital Street businesses, careful not to make a noise. He had climbed up one of the buildings in the back, using the remnants of an old attached service ladder that had never been removed. “That’s not very safe,” he observed. “All kinds of criminals could use that ladder to get up here, and you can walk across the roof to any of these businesses.”
He stood on the roof of Passed Around, well back from the edge. He watched the patrol cops parked below. Occasionally one would exit the car and walk up and down the block, leaving their partner behind. They concentrated mainly on the building across the street, paying special attention to the stairwell providing access to the apartment above the vacant shop space.
John Brown looked across the street to the apartment he thought belonged to the young man he’d been hired to kill the night before. About an hour ago, John Brown had seen a light go off in the building on the third floor. “Probably his bedroom,” he decided. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a good way to get into the apartment as long as the patrols were outside. Maybe he’d have a chance if they got sloppy or lazy, or if he could create a diversion to redirect their attention. “That’s a possibility,” he decided. “If I get the word to take care of the kid after all, I’ll have to give that idea some more thought.”
He crossed the roof quietly, making his way back the way he came. John Brown climbed down the old ladder. Once he was back on the ground, he gave it a frown. “Someone needs to take care of that. It’d be a shame for something bad to happen one night because of that ladder.”
The next three days flew by. Reightman’s team was out on the street checking for any whisper of news, hoping for tiniest hint which might lead them to the shooter. So far, nothing worthwhile had been discovered. Jones hit on a promising lead and had spent the last couple of days running it down – but it had turned out to be a false trail.
Tom’s team finished their work on Helliman’s truck, but ran into an unexpected problem. “There are about a hundred different finger prints on that damned truck, Detective,” he told her, frustration evident in his voice. “About half of them belong to members of the force.”
“Isn’t that odd, Tom?”
“No, not really. It would be if Helliman hadn’t been a cop, but I always saw a whole passel of guys hanging around that pick-up when it was parked in the lot. I’m sure pretty much everybody in this precinct has had their grubby fingers all over it.”
“So, nothing unusual has turned up,” Reightman disappointedly cut to the chase.
“There is one thing, but I’m sure it’s to be expected. The whole passenger side was wiped down with some kind of cleaning solution. Whoever did it cleaned things up pretty good. There were only a couple of prints found around the top of the door frame and on the edge of the windshield, but they could have been there forever. When we ran them, they all turned out to belong to members of the force.” Tom flipped over a couple of pages in his notes, reviewing what had been found. “We found a few dyed black cotton fibers. The thread strands are twisted, so whatever it came off of was stretchy. The significant thing is they were only found on the passenger side. We’re trying to run down a few samples so we can test for similarities. I’ll let you know if we make progress.”
“Has your financial wiz made any giant leaps forward?” Reightman asked hopefully
“Some – but I wouldn’t call her progress anything close to a giant leap. She’s created a small database linking all the transactions with the photos for easy referencing and review, which should prove helpful as we go along. She’s working on what few financial records we’ve been able to get our hands on, but that’s proving to be hard going since we have limited means of
accessing them – legally. We might have more luck if we pulled in the Feds, although that would open a can of worms we’re not prepared to handle. They have more resources they can pull from to get the sorts of information we need, but we’d probably have to give up control of the investigation if something caught their interest.”
Reightman wasn’t thrilled with that idea, but knew the Feds could access information off limits to the regular police. “We may have to do it, Tom. If we don’t make some progress soon, we’ll have to get help from somewhere.”
“You’re right,” he agreed grudgingly. “Just hold off for as long as you can. Something will pop.” He fiddled with some things on his desk for a minute, while trying to frame his thoughts. “I went back over all of the stuff we collected from the Lieberman scene. Given what I know now, your crazy theory about a hustling hitman might not be so far-fetched. If I consider the people we know were involved with Guzman, there’s plenty of resource to make something like that happen. I’ve also reviewed the Coroner’s notes again, and found something interesting. The amount of booze in his stomach doesn’t fit with the alcohol levels in his blood. It’s nothing too obvious, but it feels off to me. You might want to touch base with her again, and see if she has any ideas.”
“I don’t think Dr. Evans is too happy with me right now.”
“Patricia Evans isn’t one to hold a grudge, Reightman. I spoke with her yesterday when I went to get a copy of her notes. She’s not entirely comfortable with what’s happened around here, and she’s appalled at the things Lieberman did to Guzman’s body. I know you were upset about her ruling, but give her a break. I think she’s just trying to keep things going down there and to catch up on work left over from years of bad management.”
Reightman knew he had a point, and decided a chat with the Coroner might be worthwhile. “Speaking of Doctor Evans, did she mention any unusual findings from Helliman’s autopsy?”