When One Man Dies. Dave White
got up and went back out to my car. Four beers and it wasn’t even eight-thirty. I figured it was best I stayed out of the bar, even if that meant I had to sit in my car and think.
The night air was crisp, and I shivered as I unlocked the door. Behind me I heard footsteps. I turned to see a large man heading toward me, wearing a black Billy’s shirt. His hair was blond, crew cut, eyes bright blue. Up his right biceps was a long scar.
“You the cop?” he asked.
“Maybe,” I said. Acting tough to a bouncer usually gets you tossed out of the bar. But what the hell, we were already outside.
“Why are you looking for Rex?”
“I need to ask him a couple of questions.”
He was standing about three feet away, towering over me, his arms crossed.
“He in trouble?”
“Should he be?”
He suppressed a smile and said, “Damn. That guy gets scheduled for every Tuesday night. Then he calls up and switches with me.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t say. Just tells me he’s going to this chick’s apartment in Madison. It’s up on Elm Street over by the university. Original name, Elm Street Apartments.”
“Why did he tell you this?”
The bouncer’s face went red. “He takes my shift on Thursday nights.”
“Ah, do you go to the same place?” The bouncer shut his mouth.
“Why don’t you go on Tuesdays and he can go on Thursdays?” The bouncer didn’t say anything.
“Listen,” I said. “I don’t give a shit about you. Just him.”
“The chick I like is only there on Thursdays and Sundays.” I nodded. “What apartment?”
“Thirty-seven C.”
“Thanks,” I said. “What made you tell me?”
“I don’t know. When Rex called me, he didn’t sound happy. Something in his voice. Something wrong. I don’t trust the guy. Got a fucking temper like you wouldn’t believe. I saw him take this drunk one day, toss him into the parking lot, kick him in the head until we had to pull him off. I’m worried.”
“What’s your name?” He hesitated.
“In case I need to contact you.” He sighed. “Eddie Fredricks.”
I opened my car door. “Do me a favor, Eddie.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Rex shows up tonight, don’t mention me.”
I gave him my card, told him to call me if he thought of anything else. We shook hands and he went back toward Billy’s.
I started my car, pulled out onto Madison Avenue. I forgot to get directions. I’d stop at the next gas station.
***
I found the Elm Street Apartments, just across from Drew University, a small, private university in Madison. Brick buildings, quaint and relaxed, surrounded by a tall metal fence. I parked, sat for a few minutes. I wasn’t sure that Rex was in there, I didn’t know if I’d missed him, but if I just went up and knocked on the door I would blow my cover. Ah, the catch-22s of being a private investigator. One thing I did know, sitting here and doing nothing would only lead to boredom. So I dialed information, found the number for the nearest pizza place that delivered, and ordered a large pepperoni. I’d have to wait forty minutes.
After thirty-five minutes of thumb twiddling, I got out of my car, crossed the street, and got a better view of the apartment door.
A few minutes later the delivery guy pulled up. He stepped out of his dented, gray Corolla, carried the pizza to the apartment door. He rang the doorbell. He checked his watch as the door opened. Rex Hanover, bulging biceps, crew cut, and all, filled the doorway. The delivery guy was looking at his receipt and Hanover was shaking his head, probably saying he didn’t order a pizza. The delivery guy said a few words and Hanover shook his head some more. The delivery guy slumped his shoulders and turned back toward his car. The door to 37C closed behind him. The guy got back in his Corolla, his tires squealing as he pulled off the curb.
Hanover was in there, but I wasn’t sure with whom. If I went on what Eddie said it was probably a woman. My next hope would be to catch Hanover saying good-bye on his way out. Hopefully it’d be a woman, or hell, even a guy, and Hanover would give the person a kiss, I’d take a picture and collect an easy paycheck. But as another hour passed, my hope for an easy evening and an easy paycheck slipped away.
I decided standing on Elm was more comfortable than sitting.
About eleven-forty, my bladder was throbbing, trying to get rid of the Heineken my liver hadn’t soaked up. I took a leak through the fence, not worrying about onlookers. A car hadn’t passed on the street in twenty-five minutes. When I zipped up and turned back, 37C’s door was open. Hanover stepped out of the doorway. He didn’t turn around to kiss anyone good-bye, no one was standing in the doorway, but he had a huge rolled-up carpet dragging behind him. Carpets are heavy, but the way he pulled it, struggled with it, my stomach flipped. He dragged it like it was a deadweight.
I found my camera and scooted out of sight around the corner behind one of the brick posts of the fencing surrounding the university. I snapped two photos of Hanover with the carpet. Hanover moved slowly but confidently, as if no one was watching him and if they were, he didn’t give a damn. He would drag the carpet a few feet, then stop, and then drag it another few feet. He pulled the carpet all the way across Elm. I took another set of photos. I hoped the streetlights would be enough in the darkness, because I didn’t want to risk using the flash.
A breeze was picking up, and cool sweat pooled on my neck. Hanover pulled the carpet in front of the high iron gate that opened to the university’s road. He dropped the carpet there, as if he wanted it to be found, turned, and walked back across the street, wiping his forehead. He returned to the apartment. I snapped a picture of him going around the corner to the rear of the building, and another of him behind the wheel of a maroon Honda CR-V pulling out of the driveway, making sure I had the license plate in my viewfinder.
The car turned right onto Elm and disappeared down the road. I waited a few seconds, my knees stiff and my stomach tight. I knew I was going to go over to the rolled carpet and open it. I had an idea of what I was going to find. Once the CR-V was out of sight, I walked toward the carpet. The closer I got, I could see it wasn’t rolled that tightly, and it was already starting to unravel.
By the time I was half a block away, I could see an arm peeking out from beneath the lime green fabric.
“Hands in the fucking air!”
I raised my hands sky-high. Said, “My name’s Jackson Donne. I’m a pri—”
“Shut the fuck up! Keep your hands up!”
Two cops had hopped out of a patrol car and apparently seen the arm protruding from the carpet first. The guns were unholstered immediately and trained on me. It wasn’t the most pleasant feeling, two gun barrels pointed in my direction.
“Against the fence. Assume the position,” the taller one said.
I did as I was told, saying, “I have a camera in my pocket and a Glock under my jacket.”
The cop frisked me down, took the Glock, took the camera. “What are you doing with this?” he asked. I wasn’t sure if he meant the gun or the camera.
“I’m a private investigator. I was hired to follow someone, and he dropped the carpet off in front of the university here.”
“Hands behind your back.”
I followed his