Missing: A Mason Gray Case Read online

  Missing

  A Mason Gray Case

  by

  William C. Markham

  Copyright © 2016 by William C. Markham

  All rights reserved.

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  “presume nothing” – Sherlock Holmes

  1

  I liked the Deluxe Diner, though I'm not sure what was so deluxe about it. The service was shitty, but the coffee was good. Not that fancy cat-shit barista stuff they serve at Starbucks, but old-school coffee, the kind that comes with the little thumb-sized paper creamer containers that the waitress carries in her apron. Not that I ever take cream. I like mine black. Usually, I pocket the cream to take back to the office to feed to the stray tomcat that lives out back. One-eyed Willy. Yeah, I named him after the pirate from The Goonies. It's a good flick. But I digress.

  I took another swallow. My coffee had gone cold. I waved at Lorraine for a refill, then struck a match and lit a Camel because I knew it would be a couple of minutes before she hobbled out from around the counter. I don't use a lighter. Sure, I carry one, just in case, but I rarely use it. The smoking experience is more visceral, more real somehow, when a match is used. I think it’s that whiff of sulfur and the acrid fumes that burn the eyes a little. After taking a nice long drag, I set my cancer stick on the ashtray and watched the lacy ribbon of smoke climb its way toward the ceiling.

  This was my booth. I never sat anywhere else—not that I had to, since the place was always empty. I'm not sure what I'd do if it got busy and my seat wasn't available. Sit somewhere else, I guess. But it was a good booth for me. The flickering neon sign just above the window created enough glare that someone outside had to look really hard to see in, but I could see out just fine. Not to mention my flat was right across the street.

  Because the place was never busy, it was always quiet—and I like quiet. It makes for good thinking. And right now, I needed to think.

  Outside, it was dark and raining. But this was no surprise. It had been raining for two weeks straight: not a constant deluge, but a light drizzle with intermittent showers interrupted by the occasional downpour. At least that's what the weatherman said. Right now, it was a downpour. Small rivulets of rainwater flowed down the window beside me, converging near the bottom before disappearing from view. The weather fit my mood perfectly.

  I looked out to the ugly rose-colored building across the street and took another drag. My flat was on the second floor, and the light in the front window was still on. Of all the screwed-up things I've seen, this one beat 'em all. There was a dead man in my front room, and I had no idea how he got there.

  ***

  I was working late at the office, which was pretty typical. I'm not much of a morning person, so I stay late to catch up on paperwork. It suits me fine; I get more work done when I'm there alone. My boss, Frank, is a good guy—actually, he’s a great guy, one of the best—but he's a talker. About eight, I grabbed a couple of files I was working on, locked the place up, and went to meet a new client. Nothing special, just some accountant who suspected his wife of infidelity and needed evidence for the divorce proceedings. We get them all the time. It’s a pretty simple job: follow the mark and snap a few compromising photos. We call it a “tail and nail.”

  After the meeting, I swung by the corner market to pick up some snacks and a bottle of gin. One of the perks of not having a car is that I can drink all I want and not worry about DWIs. Not that I'm an alcoholic; I just like my gin. It’s like Christmas in a bottle. I headed on home after that.

  As soon as the cab pulled up in front of my flat, I knew something was hinky. There was light coming from the front window. Most people would think they'd accidentally left the light on, but not me. I never, ever turn on the overheads. They hurt my eyes. I don't even know why I bothered putting bulbs in them when I moved in. If I have some reading to do, I turn on a lamp. They all emit a nice, soft yellow glow, not the harsh white glare shining through the window.

  I paid the cabbie and went around back. I always use the back steps; that way it’s not so obvious when I come and go. At the top of the stairs I set the groceries down on my pathetic excuse for a balcony and drew my pistol from its shoulder holster, feeling the weight of its false reassurance settle in my hand.

  I'd never shot anyone before, not even back when I was on the force. Sure, I went to the range on a regular basis, and I could put five out of six rounds in a three-inch bull's-eye at thirty yards, but there's a big difference between throwing lead at a paper target and at a living, breathing human being. It doesn't matter how good of a shot you are if you ain't got what it takes to pull the trigger when it counts. For a man with a soul, it takes conviction, a certainty that whoever's on the other end of that barrel deserves to die. Now, considering how the deadbolt was busted and the door was pried away from the jamb, I figured my first time might be right around the corner.

  I nudged the door open with my foot and glanced inside, pistol leading the way. The kitchen, illuminated faintly by the living room light filtering down the hallway, was empty except for the pile of dishes in the sink. I stepped inside and eased the door shut behind me, muffling the noise of the outside traffic. I stood there quietly for a few minutes, listening for any movement in the place. Hearing nothing, I moved down the hallway, checking the bathroom on the right and the bedroom on the left, making sure they were both clear. At the end of the hall, I froze. Illuminated by the overhead light was a figure lying on the floor—a man in black jeans and a black T-shirt.

  A dark puddle of blood emanated from his head and was slowly soaking into my area rug. Dammit, that rug had belonged to my grandmother; they'd better be able to clean it.

  File folders and loose papers littered the floor around him. My desk had been thoroughly ransacked.

  I moved closer for a better look, being careful not to contaminate the scene. I could see two entrance wounds in the back of his head—small caliber—what the cops call a double tap. It was the sign of a professional hitter.

  Certain now that the apartment was empty save for the corpse adorning my living room floor, I went back to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of gloves from “the drawer.” I got the term from my mother. Anything that didn't have an otherwise logical home was tossed into it. With the gloves on, I carefully fished out the man's wallet.

  By this point, my nerves were a little frazzled, so I went across the street to the diner to figure out my next move.

  ***

  “Miserable ni
ght, ain't it, honey?” said a voice to my right, hoarse and gravelly, like a moped with a bad muffler. Lorraine had come by at last with the coffee. She once told me she'd been working at this diner for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years. Can you imagine? Coming to the same greasy hole in the wall, waiting on the same cheap bastards for eight hours every day with no chance of ever getting a raise. When I asked her why she stuck around, she said, “Well, honey, I been here so long I don't reckon I know how to do nothin' else.” Damn. I'd have put a gun barrel in my mouth years ago.

  “That it is, Lorraine,” I replied without taking my eyes off the window.

  “You all right? You look pale as a ghost.”

  “I'm fine,” I lied. “Been a long day, is all.”

  “Well, if you need anything, you let me know,” she said over her shoulder as she walked back to the counter.

  Pale as a ghost. I didn't doubt it. At least my hands weren't shaking anymore. They hadn’t started until I got to the diner. Guess it took a bit for the fear to settle in. I couldn't even drink my first cup of coffee without spilling it down the front of my shirt. Ten minutes and two smokes later, they’d finally quit. Now I just needed to slow my thought process and focus on one question at a time.

  I took another long drag, savoring the harsh smoke that carried the precious nicotine into my blood. I remembered reading once that nicotine binds to the same receptors in the brain as adrenaline and promptly pictured two school boys fighting over who was going to sit in that seat. I hoped the nicotine was winning.

  Glancing down at the dead man's wallet lying open on the table, I tried to place the face in the picture. I knew that face from somewhere, but it was a vague recognition, maybe someone I'd seen a few times on the bus or train. The name on the ID card didn't ring a bell at all. Victor Sanz. It wasn’t a state-issued ID, though, and there wasn’t even a number on it. That had to say something—most likely that he was illegal. The other contents of the wallet weren’t helpful either. A CTA card was standard for anyone living in the city. Sixteen dollars in cash was a little odd—I mean why sixteen? What had he bought recently that cost four dollars? Did that mean something? Impossible to tell. Most disturbing, though, was the slip of paper with my address written on it. Unfortunately, there was no other address or social security number I could check into. I just had a face and a name to go on. The cops should be able to figure out who he was faster than I could.

  Yeah... the cops.

  I hadn't called them yet. I'd have to eventually, but not until I'd thought things through.

  My separation from the CPD wasn’t exactly amicable. I’d messed things up pretty bad, pissed a lot of people off, and burned a lot of bridges. Certain individuals still held a grudge and would be thrilled to send me up the river if they got the chance. This would certainly give them the opportunity they were looking for. Of course, if I didn’t call them, it would only make me look that much more guilty.

  I still had a few friends that wouldn’t sell me out, hopefully. My old partner, Jack, was one of them. If I talked to him, he could probably send someone out who didn’t have a bone to pick. I’d call him shortly.

  The question my brain kept going back to was: who did kill this guy, and why? A number of possibilities came to mind, none any more likely than the next, although one particular scenario demanded serious consideration. What if the killer had been after me? What if it was sheer coincidence that two strangers had been in my flat at the same time and the shooter had assumed this Victor guy was me? Of course, I couldn’t answer these questions until I found out who Victor Sanz was and what the hell he was doing in my home to begin with.

  This torrent of thoughts and the rain pounding on the window beside me both slowly began to subside. Just as the world gradually became visible through the glass, so too a plan of action took shape. It was fuzzy at first, but grew clearer as my swirling thoughts ebbed to the recesses of my brain. I couldn’t see very far ahead, but hopefully, after I’d taken the first few steps, more would reveal itself.

  ***

  I grabbed the phone from its clip on my belt and unlocked it. I’m not sure how people survived before cell phones were invented; I’ve become inseparable from mine. I’ve watched scenes in movies where someone chucks their mobile into an ocean or lake and relishes the freedom it brings. I don’t buy it for a second. I’d die of a panic attack if somebody did that to me. If I don’t want to be bothered, I turn mine off.

  Cycling through my contact list, I found the name I was looking for and hit “send.” It rang twice before someone picked up.

  “Larsen,” said the man on the other end.

  “Jack,” I said, “It’s Gray. I need a favor.”

  Gray is my last name. I don’t give out my first name because it’s stupid, and people laugh. See, my mother was an Anglophile, so she named me Earl. As if that’s not a god-awful name to begin with, add to it the last name Gray, and... Well, I’m sure you can put it together. My middle name is Mason, same as my old man’s. While I don’t have anything against him, the name Mason Gray is his, not mine, so I just go by Gray.

  “I’ll do what I can, Gray, but I’m pretty swamped here. What’s going on?” Papers rustled in the background.

  Jack and I went back pretty far. We’d gone to school together, taken the same criminal-justice classes. I could tell he was busy by the sound of his voice, but this was important.

  “I need you to send an unmarked car to my place. Send the coroner too. And someone to process.”

  The rustling stopped.

  “Gray? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  I filled him in with the details and my concerns.

  “Okay. I’ll do my best to keep it quiet. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  I knew where he was going with this. “Yeah, take me off the suspect list. The entry wounds are small caliber, probably a .22. The ME will confirm it. I carry a .380, and that’s my only piece.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. The stiff’s name is Victor Sanz. It doesn’t ring any bells. The face is familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “Okay, I’ll run it and see if anything pops up. Are you in the apartment?”

  “No, I’m at the diner across the street.”

  There was a brief silence. I imagined he was trying to decide if I was serious. Then, “Okay, stay where you are. One of my guys will be there shortly.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Then something else occurred to me, something disturbing. “Jack, one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If somebody is gunning for me, they might go after Frank too. Could you send a squad car over to check on him? Give him the heads up.”

  “Sure thing. What’s the address?” he asked.

  “3356 North Seeley,” I said. “Over in Roscoe Village.”

  “Got it,” he replied. He reminded me to stay put, and we got off the phone.

  I leaned back in the seat and tried to see the next step. Right now, there were too many questions, too many possible causes of my current situation. I needed to narrow them down and focus on one question at a time.

  I reached into the inside pocket of my trench coat and took out a notepad and pen—a stereotypical detective accessory, but it’s practical. I’m a list man. Some people, like my father, never write anything down. They think it’s beneath them. Not me. I use my notepad for everything—grocery lists, to-do lists, facts from interviews, random thoughts, and organizing questions. I’ve tried using my phone to do it—there are plenty of apps for it—but it’s not the same. I’m also aware that my gray trench coat is cliché. That’s why I wear it. Like it or not, that’s my style.

  I started writing down the questions running through my head.

  Who was Victor Sanz? The cops were working on that, so I put a “c” beside it.

  Who killed him? No way to answer that yet.

  Why was he killed? Too many possible answers, but the mistaken identity scenario required t
hat I keep a low profile until I knew the answer.

  Why had Victor been in my house? I visualized the scene in my apartment again. Nothing had been broken. No valuables or electronics seemed to have been disturbed, but my desk had been ransacked. Somebody was looking for something, something specific. It could have been Victor or whoever had killed him.

  Had they found it? I’d been in such a hurry to get out of the flat I hadn’t taken the time to see if anything was missing. I’d have to go back and look. I briefly entertained the idea of dashing across the street to take a quick inventory before the boys in blue showed up, but there wasn’t enough time, I decided. If they showed up while I was in there, they’d be pretty pissed. They might even take me in. That wouldn’t be good. I might be safe in the slammer, but I sure as hell couldn’t get any answers there.

  As if to confirm my wise decision, a black Crown Vic with four antennas pulled up in front of the diner, and a suit got out and came through the door. Very subtle. The detective brushed the rain from his shoulders and glanced around the place. Seeing I was the only patron, he walked to my booth and said in a smooth tone, “Mr. Gray?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m Detective Rowe. Mike Rowe.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “No relation,” he said flatly.

  He slid into the booth across from me and asked about the night’s events, so I told him and handed over the dead guy’s wallet. Others, he informed me, had parked in the back alley and were processing the scene. He checked my weapon and permit, then handed them back to me and made a note on a pad he’d pulled out while I was telling my story. It was a leather-bound deal, fine-grained, embossed in gold with his last name, with a little elastic loop on the side to hold a pen. A stab of jealousy shot through me. The feeling was stupid, but I couldn’t justify dropping twenty bucks on something like that when I could pick up a 4-pack of notepads from the dollar store. Even though I’d love to have something like it, being an independent has its financial limitations. I could feel a divide open between us.