Silver Lining - A Carpelli Adventure: Sequel To The Bestselling Thriller Fatal Mistake Read online

  As I started to walk away the guy cleared his throat and said, “Hey, hold on a moment.” He then tossed back the remainder of his second Manhattan, slipped off his stool and walked off towards the door. As he crossed the bar to the front door he was checking out the room for anyone watching him or me. “Let’s take a walk shall we?” He stated as he reached the door and glanced back one more time.

  We turned left and walked south towards Union Ave. He was silent until we reached Union. Then, just as I was about to ask what’s up, he held up his hand, cutting off conversation and we kept on walking. It wasn’t until we had crossed the street and turned left towards Gay Street, that he started talking.

  “Okay, I like you, plus I’m in a bit of a fix. Here’s my card. I’m Edward Holston, Attorney at Law and like your former employer, I work for some colorful people. I have a job I need done a.s.a.p. Are you interested?” he asked, as we continued to walk towards Gay Street.

  “You haven’t told me what the job is yet,” I responded, “but I’m interested.”

  “Good, now what’s your real name?” He pretty much demanded.

  “John Carpelli. Like the flyer says.” The guy pulled the crumpled napkin from his pocket and opened it, then stuffed it back in his pocket. “The attorney I worked for was a guy named Jackson Bender. I worked for him almost exclusively, for twelve years. I draw the line at whacking people, especially if the person to be whacked is me or a close friend. I don’t, sort of as a rule, ask what anyone has done to warrant my attention, but I do need as much information as you have on the person, if I’m to solve the issue. I’ll expect to be provided things like their name, address, cell phone, make and model of car, who their close friends are, if they have a job. If they belong to anything, like clubs, bowling leagues, golf clubs, or the Shriners, if there are children living with them, exactly what information I’m expected to deliver or get, whether the message needs to be delivered in such a way as to leave a mark or leaves them guessing as to how your client came across it. I also need to know what the time frame is for the completion of the task.” I took a breath and continued.

  “I’ll need to know the name of their employer and if they are made. If a body needs to be disposed of, it’s twenty-five grand. If you really need the body to disappear while it’s still breathing, it’s a hundred grand as a basic fee and I may or may not take the assignment, once I hear who the target is. I’m not into suicide packs or performing for an audience. If it happens a target ends up dead, by accident, well there’s no charge and no comment. And last but not least, I decide how best to solve the issue, unless the client specifically spells out the solution ahead of time. And last but not least, I work alone. Each and every one of these items is a deal breaker.” Holston walked on silently for a few moments then started talking again. I guess he agreed to my terms.

  “The associate, who was shot in the bar, was my investigator. He was supposed to have delivered a message last night, to an underling of one of my clients. You heard he was killed, so I don’t know if the message was delivered or not. Witnesses are saying he got involved with some woman and her significant other didn’t like it much. Words were exchanged and he got popped. The woman and her significant other have disappeared off the face of the earth today. What I’d like you to do is find out if the shooting is legit, where the couple disappeared to and if the message was delivered. You figure that out and maybe, I‘ll have some more work for you. I need it a.s.a.p.” He stated as he wrote down his associates name, home address, his girlfriend’s address, the make and model of his car, who he was supposed to have seen last night, a Michael Nolan and all of that guys information, plus description and finally what the message was that was to be delivered. It turned out the message was not a friendly message. In fact, it was downright hostile.

  “So where did this shooting take place?” I asked, as we turned right onto Gay Street and headed south towards the river.

  “At a honky tonk out in Strawberry Plains, on Kitts Rd, it’s a real dive, a biker’s hangout. It’s called, The Wild Rose. If they don’t like your look, they claim it’s a private club and kick you out.” He informed me.

  “Has the autopsy been performed on your friend yet?”

  “The body is still awaiting autopsy at the morgue, but I believe the preliminary should be done. Anything else you need to get this done?” he stated as he handed me the information he had written down.

  “What’s it pay?”

  “Two grand, anything else?” Holston asked.

  “Nope. I’ll be in touch,” I stated as I turned around to walk back to my car. As I walked I checked my watch. It was going on three, still early, I told myself. It occurred to me as I walked back the car that something was out of place. The job I had been asked to perform was typically a five hundred dollar deal, yet Holston had offered to pay two grand. Holston seemed nervous, always looking around. What was I missing? Was he afraid the killer from last night might be looking for him now? Was it because this probably involved bikers? I’ve been to a few biker clubs up north and I guess it didn’t matter to me. I’m usually not welcome in most of the places I investigate. For two grand and with a little luck, I’d have this cleared up by dinner. First stop the morgue.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The morgue turned out to be attached the University of Tennessee Medical School. It took me over an hour to find the right building, nothing is marked. That was after spending almost an hour on line trying to get directions to it. All that was listed on the internet was a vague, general statement that the Medical Examiner’s office was at the University of Tennessee. In the process of finding the ME’s office, I discovered the Medical Examiner’s office in the past had been the subject of numerous and continuing investigations by state and federal officials in regards to, poor administrative and medical practices, and procedures; everything from drugs to bizarre sex parties.

  I wasn’t looking for any person in particular, just someone who could direct me to the clerk who might be able to tell me what the preliminary findings were. As with any medical examiner’s office this large, it serves not only Knox County and the city of Knoxville, but four or five counties surrounding it as well. So they wouldn’t be conducting the autopsy on Holston’s dead associate, for at least a week maybe two.

  In my quest to locate the office of the Medical Examiner, I found myself in the basement of some medical school building, wandering the halls. I’d stopped everyone I’d come across to ask directions and received at least dozen conflicting directions to the intake desk for the County Medical Examiner. Out of desperation, I walked into a room with a sign on the door stating it was, Autopsy Theater-Exam Room One.

  Upon opening the door, I was overwhelmed by the smell of antiseptic and death. A quick look around revealed there was no one here and the room was very similar to the morgue I’d visited back home a few dozen times. I stepped in and looked the place over. Aside from being exceptionally clean and white, there were three large metal exam tables lined up down the center of the room. The exam tables were built like shallow pans so they could catch the bodily fluids from the cadavers being examined. They were on wheels, so they could be moved about, as needed. It lead me to think of an assembly line. There were several different saws hung on the far wall including a couple of wicked looking power saws that would make many a carpenter envious. Hanging from the ceiling were three large lights like you’d see in a Surgical Theater, so they could get plenty of light upon the subject body.

  To the left, at one end of the room was a desk piled high with papers. Along the side walls were several cabinets and counters that ran most of their length, leaving just enough space for the doors on each side of the room. There were two large plastic carts about four feet square and four feet tall on wheels, marked, ‘Clothes’ and ‘BP’ for body parts, I assumed.

  The far wall was a solid bank of two dozen cold chambers or body vaults, laid out neatly in rows of six, four high. All but a couple had paper tags in the built-in lab
el holder on the door. Business was brisk. It appeared the place was so popular; people were just dying to get in. Yeah, I know morgue humor.

  “Are you from the Sheriff’s Department?” I heard a woman call out from behind me. I spun around and saw a woman in her forties, tall about five ten, dressed in surgical scrubs that did little to hide her shape. She was dragging a gurney with a body on it, into the room and I quickly stepped over and held the door open, so she could get the gurney through more easily. I also got a good look at the woman and decided she was quite good looking. She had a slight wisp of hair untucked by her left ear that was auburn in color and I found that quite interesting.

  “A real gentleman,” she sarcastically cracked then rapidly added. “Look, like I told the guy on the phone, the faxed form is all there is right now. I haven’t had time to do a more detailed exam. I’ve been busy.” She was talking like she was on a double dose of speed or maybe a couple of dozen cups of Espresso coffee,

  “There was a triple murder discovered over by Island Airport, I was called out on. They’ve been in the woods for some time so not only do I have to try to determine cause of death, but I have to deal with the crew out to the Body Farm, you know the federally funded, University of Tennessee run research center, studying human decomposition out north of town.”

  “Anyway they will be quite excited to have the opportunity to compare these bodies to those they’ve farm produced. It’ll turn into a real pissing match, which will end up dragging the whole process out another six weeks, while they fight over who gets to do what. It’s not like they haven’t enough to do with all the federal cases they get each month but hey, I guess there’s no rest for the weary.” She just kept talking.

  “I bet you want to have the medical jargon translated,” she stated as she shoved the gurney up next to an exam table, “into lay man’s terms?” I knew she’d asked a question but I was still digesting the barrage of words she’d just spit out, so my response was a little vague.

  “Umhh…”

  “Hey Simpleton, you still with me?” She stated sarcastically, as she grabbed the feet of the cadaver. “How about a little help, huh?” She asked and for a moment I just looked at her. “He won’t bite you, I promise,” she smiled seductively at me and I knew I just had help. I grabbed the shoulders and heaved the body up on to the table.

  “I’m sorry; it’s been a long day.” I tried lamely to give her an excuse for my lack a quick wit.

  “It sure has been, but I find if I drink a Red Bull every hour or so, plus pop a few caffeine pills, I can make it through the day. It’s a real bitch having to pee so much though, but since I don’t have time for a nap, I do what I can. Now what is it you wanted? Oh yeah, a layman’s translation of the fax. Did you bring it with you?” She asked and I sheepishly said,

  “No.”

  “I wish I knew what makes you deputies think I can keep every case in my head and pull up the exact information from every autopsy I’ve ever done.”

  “They say your smartest Medical Examiner that’s ever worked here.” I quickly tried to suck up to her.

  “They do? But how would you know, you don’t even know my name?” She was quick.

  “I got your description for one of the other guys before I came over,” I retorted.

  “Good cover. It’s a lie of course, but good cover just the same. It’s Doctor Harris, Annette Harris, Anne,” she introduced herself.

  “So Doctor, should I call you Doctor Harris or Doctor Anne.” I inquired.

  “You can call me, Doctor Anne.”

  “Is it appropriate to say, you don’t look like any doctor I’ve known before? I’m sure you have a terrific bedside manner.” I then blurted out not having missed her little friendly flirt with me when she said I could call her Doctor Anne.

  “Flattery and flirting! Oh how I long for the days when my co-workers and patients, used to flirt with me, all day long. The truth is I hated it, because I stupidly thought they didn’t value me as a doctor. I now know, they were just letting off steam or really did want to get into my pants. Now all I hear is complaints about one damn thing or another.” She had actually slowed her speech down to a reasonable rate and had gotten a faraway look in her eyes as she talked about flirting.

  “I find it hard to believe you doubted their intentions towards you. If I worked here, I’d be flirting with you all day long. Say, what time do you get off?” I flirted with her some more.

  “I got off at five,” the clock on the wall said it was ten after six, “but my husband doesn’t expect me until at least eight. You want to do the deed on one of tables? There’s no one around. The only thing we can’t do is smoke afterwards.’’ She grinned wickedly at me.

  “Well, I…” I started to say something but she interjected and cut me off.

  “I really haven’t the time, but it’s the thought that counts. You’re here about Broderick Collins, right? Okay, listen up because I only have time to do this once.” I watched her as she took a deep breath and then as if she flipped a switch she was back doing her impression of a verbal Gatling gun. “The victim is a male, mid-thirties, approximately two hundred twenty pounds, light brown hair, muscular, no facial hair, several scars, the most prominent of which are the two on his torso, one on the upper right quadrant of his stomach and the other one in the lower left quadrant of the rib cage. Both were consistent with major trauma. If I had to guess, I’d say he’d been in the military and had been wounded in action. The scars are consistent with military field hospital standards. He also happened to have the Marine Corp Insignia tattooed on his left bi-cep and several Grim Riper tattoos on his chest and back. These are possibly designators for his military unit”

  “The body was found face down in a toilet in the men’s room with a bullet wound to the head. Someone had shot him in the back of the head. It was an execution, judging by the muzzle stamp on the back of the head and the exit wound where the victim’s forehead and upper left portion of his face used to be. I’ll confirm that at autopsy.”

  “I arrived at the scene at one a.m., my associates were all busy, or so they claimed, and I judged the victim to have been dead for at least two hours, maybe three. The bartender claimed he hadn’t heard or seen a thing. It was called in by an anonymous tip.” She suddenly stopped talking. She looked up as if to say, “Any questions?” when I didn’t immediately ask one, she began unwrapping the body on the table.

  “Wow, you are amazing, Doctor. I appreciate the help.” I stated and headed for the door.

  “Are you sure, you wouldn’t care to stay and help me with some slicing and dicing?” she called out without looking to see where I was. “Say, what was your name, Detective?” She asked, but I didn’t answer her, I was already twenty feet down the hall. When I didn’t answer her, she just shrugged her shoulders and kept working. There it was again, the silver lining. The doctor had just told me all I needed to know, to get some additional work from Counselor Holston. His investigator was murdered and he’ll want to know by who and why.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I love the smaller cities. You can get anywhere within an hour, regardless of the time of day. From the University of Tennessee to The Wild Rose, was just over twenty miles through the heart of Knoxville and seven or eight rungs down the cultural and evolutionary ladder. From the outside, it looked like the kind of place that you’d want to twist off your own beer cap just to be sure it was fresh and undoctored. The word dive was insulted when used in the same sentence as the name, The Wild Rose.

  The Wild Rose was a one story building with a long covered front porch, right at ground level. The building was at least twenty years overdue for a paint job and the property looked every bit as rough as the building did. The only landscaping was the weeds growing up through the cracks in the asphalt, there was a trash corral half torn down and filled with trash, and there was broken glass and liter sprinkled around the parking lot like confetti after a political parade. The place just reeked of low life trailer tra
sh ambiance.

  There were a dozen or so motorcycles parked to the left side of the front door, so I parked off to the right side. Having done this a few times I knew the average biker wasn’t going to sit still to answer questions from police officers or private investigators. Typically, they either stonewalled you or became frustrated very quickly. Then the fun began as they tried to take out their frustrations on the investigator by beating the crap of him or worse. So, before I got out of my car, I prepared myself for the challenge I would face once I had gone inside. I switched my gun from my lower back into the front right pocket of my sports coat. That way someone couldn’t disarm me from behind. I pulled my taser from under the driver’s seat and stuck it in my sports coat’s front left pocket. I pulled my wallet from my pants back pocket, took out a five and a couple of tens and shove them in my front right pants pocket, before putting the wallet in the inside left breast pocket of my sports coat. I then took my cell phone and put it in the front right inside breast pocket. My car keys went in my front left pants pocket and then I pulled my collapsible baton from under the seat and tucked it up the left sleeve of my sports coat. I’d had a special flap sewn in to the sleeve to hold it in place while I walked around, but just by flicking my wrist, it would fall out into my hand, where I could have it open and ready for use in under two seconds.

  Exiting the car, I couldn’t help but feel I should have brought a machine gun and bazooka with me as well, but it was too late now. Jack Carver, reporter for The Knoxville Sentinel was on the story. I kept my right hand in my pocket, holding my gun, as I walked across the room to the bar and took a seat. The bartender was down at the other end of the bar talking to one of the bikers, who was decked out in his biker leathers and wearing a vest with his clubs colors on it, he was a Diablo.