The Conklin half of the duplex was blue, just as it had been for forty years with a brown shingle roof. Snowball bushes flanked either side of the cement stoop, and red geraniums had been evenly spaced the length of the porch. It was basically a flat. Living room in front, dining room in the middle, kitchen at the rear. Three bedrooms and bath upstairs. It was a small, tidy house crammed with kitchen smells and too much furniture, comfortable with its lot in life.
"What are you doing gallivanting around in this rain?" my mother asked when I opened the door. "There's something wrong, isn't there. I knew it. You only come over here for two reasons: either for dinner or something is wrong. Seeing that lunch only passed an hour ago, I'm going to guess something is wrong."
"There is nothing wrong," I told her. "I just need to know if I could borrow your car."
"You're having car problems? Lord, Ian, I cautioned you about buying that second hand jeep."
My father leaned forward in his chair in the living room. "What's this about car problems?"
"His car broke down," she hollered back over the television.
"No, it's not broken down. Now, dad, just remain where you are," I added, as he got up out of his chair. "There's nothing wrong with my car."
"Then what is it, Ian?" my mother asked, placing her hands on her hips.
"I simply need to borrow one of you cars for the job I'm doing tonight."
"Is it the carburetor?" my father asked peering out the window at my car. "When is it due for inspection?"
I rolled my eyes. "The carburetor is in fine shape - I don't have to bring the car in for inspection until January."
"Then what's all this deal about a broken car?" he pressed on.
This time my mother spoke up in a raised voice, despite the fact that my father's hearing was perfect. "He's not having car problems - he wants to borrow one of ours."
My father returned to his television program. "Oh, sure, borrow the Buick."
With an increasing headache, I quickly snatched up the keys, relieved to finally be heading out.
"I'm cooking a pot roast tonight," my mother informed me.
"Can't join," I responded. "Work to do."
"You and your work," she said with disdain as I departed.
I waved goodbye while sliding into the car, but only received a stern look in return. My mother never did care for my line of duty - my father was indifferent.
Officially, I lived at the western boundary of the city, but in actuality my neighborhood felt more like the outskirts than the city proper. My apartment building was an ugly dark red brick cube built before central air and thermal pane windows. Eight floors in all, and I lived on the top. By modern-day standards it wasn't a terrific apartment. It didn't come with a pool membership or have tennis courts attached. The elevator was unreliable. The kitchen appliances were a notch below generic.
The good part about the apartment was that it had been built with sturdy stuff. Sound didn't carry from apartment to apartment. The rooms were large and sunny. Ceilings were high. My windows overlooked the city. It was perfect for one or two people to live in.
I parked the Buick in the lot and slunk into the back entrance, mapping out tonight's excursion. I was hell bent on finding something to absolutely confirm that Carter was sleeping around with the teenage kid. So far I just had the kid sighting, but without Carter around and the word of a hairdresser. When I go back in my apartment I studied the stranger's pair of underwear sprawled out on the coffee table and tried to picture the kid in it. It seemed plausible.
My mind wandered in the dark. I wondered what Carter was up to and I wondered who the pair of underwear actually belonged to.
I awoke with a start, finding myself sitting bolt upright on the couch. The sun had descended, casting moonlight through the crack in my living room curtains, and my heart was pounding. My mind cleared, and I realized it had been the scratching of someone picking a lock that had jolted me awake.
I was on my feet, stumbling through the darkness. My big toe collided with the coffee table and I cursed fiercely under my breath. With the tiniest 'pop' my front door unlocked and squeaked open.
Ignoring the terrible throbbing of my big toe, I scurried across the living room. I kept a Smith & Wesson in the end table. I heard the scrape of a shoe from the foyer and almost passed out from adrenaline rush. My first instinct was to shoot the gun. My second instinct was to bludgeon the intruder. I didn't follow either of these instincts because the cold barrel of a gun was pressed to my ear.
"Drop the gun."
It was a male's voice. I couldn't see him, but could feel his breath on the back of my neck. His voice was low and raspy. A smoker's voice.
"We lower them at the same time," I held a firm ground.
"I need some help here," the guy with the gun said. "We need to convince Mr. Conklin here to see things our way."
A second man stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing the requisite ski mask and coveralls. He was taller and heavier. He was shaking a canister of pepper spray. Showing me he knew to make sure the gas is live.
I opened my mouth to shout and was hit with the spray. I felt it suck back to my throat and burn, felt my throat close over. I went down hard to my knees and choked, unable to see, closing my eyes tight to the searing pain, blinded by the spray.
Hands grabbed at me, digging into my shirt, dragging me forward to my coat closet. I was thrown to the small space, knocking into my coats, still unable to catch my breath. The hands were at me again, wrenching my jacket over my shoulders to form a makeshift straitjacket, binding my arms behind my back and tearing my shirt in the process. I fought the pepper spray. It'll pass, I told myself.
They moved off. Waiting for me to come around. I blinked to see. Two large shapes in the dark.
One of them flashed a penlight in my eyes. "Bet you're not feeling so brave anymore," he said.
I adjusted my jacket and tried to stand but wasn't able to get farther than my hands and knees. My nose was running, dripping onto the floor, mixing with drool. My breathing was still shallow, but the earlier panic had passed.
"This is a warning," the main guy said. "Stay away from Carter and you want see us again, capeesh? Continue to snoop around and stick you nose into places where it don't belong and you'll be seeing us shortly and this will just be the beginning. And when we're done you're not going to want to tell anyone about it. And you're not going to want to go chasing after Carter anymore. And if you do...we're going to come get you and kill you."
I turned my head and spat at his shoes, unable to find my tongue through the pain that coursed through my throat.
Less than a millisecond after spitting, I felt my head snap backwards, sending my body crashing against the wall. There was laughter, a red flash, fireworks exploded in my brain and then everything went black.
My next memory was of struggling to regain consciousness, struggling to open my eyes, struggling to place my surroundings.
It was dark. Night. I put my hand to my face. My face was sticky. A black stain spread from under my check. I dumbly stared at the stain. Blood, I thought. Car crash. No, that wasn't right. Then I remembered. I was in my coat closet. I was on my side, my body impossibly twisted around on the floor.
It was very quiet. I didn't move. I listened to the silence and waited for my head to clear. I ran my tongue over my teeth. No teeth were broken. I gingerly touched my nose. My nose seemed okay.
I pushed up to hands and knees, then finally got to my feet, stumbling out of the closet like some zombie, moaning and groaning. The throbbing in my head intensified at the sight of my apartment. It had been torn apart. Cushions up turned, drapes yanked down, coffee table flipped on its side, books tossed from the bookshelves, kitchen drawers hanging over.
At the sight of my reflection in the foyer mirror I remembered the asshole who had bludgeoned me and his partner who sprayed me. What had they been looking for?
Two things were noticeably gone, my Smith & Wesson and the stranger's underwear, my one link to this case, but everything else was still here just tossed around.
It was well past midnight. I cursed loudly at a number of things: the two bastards, the state of my apartment, and the fact that I missed some prime time to observe the kid at Carter's place. The hell if I was going to be scared off. If anything I was more determined then ever.
I shoved myself into my jacket, fixed up the side of my face as best as I could, then stormed off down the hall. On the way down a thought occurred to me: someone else had to have seen those two men.
If not someone, then something, like video surveillance might have caught them. The security room was located on the ground floor, tucked away in a corner. I was familiar with the guards, as they have worked closely with some of my co-workers.
Charlie Packer, the night guard, was manning the network of TV's accompanied by a large cup of coffee and donuts.
"The fuck happened to you?" he asked, swiveling around in his chair.
"You know you are reinforcing the cop stereotype with the donuts," I commented, pulling up the one other chair in the room.
Charlie shrugged, "It's a good stereotype." He pushed the box in my direction and I figured I'd take up on his offer after what I went through. Charlie was hefty, spare tire waist, broad shoulders, dirty blonde hair; little neck, wide set eyes, but always had a good disposition. Sometimes he was a friend first for me, then a cop.
I bit into a jelly filled donut. "So which of these TV screens monitors my floor, the 8th floor?"
Charlie stared at me. "You going to tell me what happened?"
I lean forward examining the many screens, avoiding his eyes, "Just tell me which one is my hall."
Charlie provided a skeptical look, but joined me, pointing with a sausage finger to the top screen. "This one here," he said. Sure enough I spotted Mrs. Jones, a batty old lady who lived down the hall from me, carrying a bag of groceries.
"Seeing that your door is at the complete opposite end, it just falls out of the range," Charlie continued.
"Can you rewind the tape?"
He laughed. "Tapes are old school, my friend. It's all digital now, but sure I'll go back in time. What exactly are you looking for?"
I didn't answer right away, but watched as Mrs. Jones started to speed walk backwards onto the elevator. It remained uneventful. Nothing suspicious. I was disheartened at the realization that if my door was out of the way, so were the stairs, as they were at the same end. The intruders had to know this. I averted my eyes and looked at another screen. "How about the lobby?"
"How about you tell me what went on?"
"Some bastards broke into my apartment; pepper sprayed me, then left me unconscious." I told him the very minimum. "Now how about you replay the lobby tape?"
As Charlie turned back the footage, he said, "Is this because you're after Carter?"
"How'd you know?" I asked.
"Caroline stays up to date with gossip in these parts and your story has been red hot and..."
"Stop the tape!" I shouted suddenly. The camera was focused on two men in overalls. No masks on, but they were the ones.
Charlie squinted at the screen. "These the two you're looking for? They're definitely wearing disguises. The one on the left cannot be large; I reckon he added filling under his clothes to change his physique.
I stared at the screen and felt hatred spreading through me. They blended in well with the other tenants entering and leaving the building. They just cruised right in.
"Want a print out?" Charlie asked.
I nodded, yes.
"Want me to run this by Diane at the station? She may be able to ID their profiles if they have past criminal history."
I nodded again.
"Want a tissue?"
I touched the bruise that ran from my scalp down around my eye and to my cheek. It was bleeding again. I nodded for the third time.
Thirty minutes and two donuts later, I was behind the wheel of my father's Buick traveling towards Carter's home. The freeze frame Carter printed out was on the passenger's seat. Just incase the same two guys in overalls decided to randomly pop out of the bushes I'll be able to ID them.
The time was going on one in the morning, but I was far from tired. I was angry, if anything. But the two men springing their presence upon me I reasoned was a mistake on their part. Before hand I had some doubt that Carter was as guilty as Lucy made him out to be.
Now the intruders removed all doubt. He was as guilty as sin.
As it was earlier in the day, there was no car in Carter's driveway. The living room lights were out in the house, but the bedroom light was on.
A figure moved through the house. The living room light blinked on.
I drove around the corner to the paved alley road that intersected the block. I slowly rolled down the single lane, cut my lights and paused at the neighboring house. I continued to the end of the lane and parked the Buick around the corner.
Cutting the engine, I crept back to Carter's yard and stood outside the boundaries, hidden in shadow.
` After a few moments the teenage kid once again crossed in front of the rear bedroom window. He had the phone to his ear, and he was smiling.
Ignoring the throbbing at the side of my head, I slipped inside the boundaries and tippytoed to the house. I flattened myself against the siding and held my breath. I inched closer to the window. I could hear him talking, but I couldn't make out the words. Periodic laughter. His shadow was cast across the backyard and I sucked in a breath, willing myself invisible. But the kid was merely leaning against the window sill looking out. Within a few seconds he pulled away and I exhaled.
I was probably slightly out of line in terms of job description. The kid wasn't who I was supposed to be spying on, but he may be the connection to Carter.
Suddenly I heard the sweet sound of classical music come from within the bedroom. I cautiously curled my fingers around the edge of the window and lifted myself up slightly. The kid had his back towards me, still wearing his gym shorts, but no shirt. He was bent over a high-tech stereo.
To my unexpected surprise - a closet-sized bathroom was attached to the bedroom and near the window. The door flew up and I hit the deck. The kid wasn't alone. I waited for a few seconds before deciding it was safe to sit back up.
The man who exited the bathroom was older - around mid-thirties. He approached the kid from behind and wrapped his arms around the kid's waist, kissing his neck.
I could tell that the second guy was not Carter. Carter was a bit younger with brown hair, not black hair. I watched the two of them sway in position to the smooth melody of Mozart. The drapes to the window that looked out to the neighborhood were drawn; I guess they had no reason to believe that nobody would care enough to spy from the back.
The kid fell back on the bed, bouncing slightly, and smiling as if he had just won the lottery. His partner was peeling off clothes as if it were a natural motion until he was down to briefs.
The kid was squirming out of his gym shorts. I already decided that he went commando. I made a mental picture of the stranger's underwear that was stolen from me. The second guy in there was not wearing that type.
Pretty soon the sound of grunting, moaning of two men going through pure ecstasy reached me ear. The older guy moved in and out of the kid. They were both sweaty and staring at each other with determination. The bed rocked back and forth. The kid knew how to take it.
He had experience, I noted. Experience with Carter?
All the while I waited for Carter to casually stroll in and join. But when all was done and white cum was blasted everywhere, Carter was still MIA.
The two curled up together, signifying sleep time.
Crawling on my hands and knees, I left the premises and didn't straighten up until I was out of view. I brushed off my muddy jeans and as I slid behind the wheel of the Buick I was surprised at how hard I became.