Footprints of a Dancer (Detective Elliot Mystery) (5 page)

He shook his head. “Nobody sleeps here, won’t even come near it. Can’t say as I blame them, can you?”

He asked the question as if he understood what Elliot had been through during the night. Elliot turned away and repositioned the boards over the window.

When he turned back, he saw the old guy walking away. It was eerie how the homeless slipped in and out of the night.

Elliot straddled the Harley. Whether his hallucinations of Gerald and Laura had been elements of the past, premonitions of the future, or simply the product of an overworked imagination, he wasn’t sure. But one thing was certain. Ghosts didn’t put locks on doors.

A disturbance, like trashcans being knocked over, came from the back of the house.

Elliot fired up the bike and sped behind the abandoned house. In the alley, he positioned the bike and swept the beam of the headlight across the area like a searchlight.

Something streaked across the yard and disappeared into the shadows.

Elliot tried to follow the prowler or whatever it was with the light, but it moved too fast, and as it blended into the darkness, he wondered if it was an animal or a man that had lowered himself to the ground to run on all fours.

From somewhere in the distance, a car engine started.

Elliot swung around.

A vehicle parked alongside the street about thirty yards west of the house pulled onto the roadway and sped past, going east.

Elliot twisted the grip of the Harley and rocketed forward, nearly losing the bike as he sped onto the street. Recalling what the salesman had told him—If you don’t respect the bike, it won’t respect you—he eased off the throttle and regained control.

Several automobiles were on the roadway. One of them had to be the car he’d seen near the old house.

Without slowing down, a green Honda turned east on 11
^th
, its tires squealing.

Elliot turned after it.

The driver of the Honda increased his speed, weaving around the other cars.

Elliot had made the right decision. Of course the driver had no way of knowing he was a cop. He couldn’t blame him for trying to evade some crazy motorcyclist on his tail.

The driver of the Honda slammed on the brakes and the car came to an abrupt stop.

Elliot imagined the Harley hitting the back bumper of the car, his body flying like a wilted mannequin through the air. He leaned to the left, just missing the vehicle, then redistributed his weight back to vertical as he rocketed past the Honda. Regaining his composure, he slowed the bike and did a half circle in the middle of the street.

The Honda squealed its tires and lurched toward him.

Elliot twisted the throttle, a head on collision waiting to happen, but as he gained momentum he again harnessed the power of gravity to alter the bike’s course. He’d found the respect the salesman had told him about. The Harley was incredibly responsive, almost an extension of his own body. The smell of burning rubber filled Elliot’s senses as he slid past the Honda, avoiding the crash by inches.

Once again, Elliot turned the bike around.

The Honda had kept going and was now turning north onto Peoria Avenue.

Elliot continued the pursuit, increasing his speed until he reached the intersection of 11
^th
and Peoria.

The driver pulled off the road, jumped out of the Honda and darted across Peoria toward Oaklawn Cemetery. When he saw Elliot idling at the corner, he glanced across the street at the Honda, spun around, scaled the fence surrounding the cemetery, and dropped to the other side.

Elliot maneuvered the bike onto the sidewalk. He didn’t exactly fear cemeteries, but he never visited them without reason, and he’d certainly never entertained the idea of walking the narrow streets of the dead during the black of night. But he had to. And he was somewhat familiar with the place. He’d been to a funeral here. He dismounted, then climbed the fence and stepped onto the damp, spongy soil of the cemetery. He pulled his service weapon and scanned the area.

Shadowy outlines of tombstones and silhouettes of scraggly trees dotted the dark landscape. The Honda driver could be hiding and waiting for him to follow, or he could have lingered near the fence.

The muffled sound of a twig snapping against the soft earth came from Elliot’s left. He swung toward the sound, his imagination hosting visions of undead creatures crawling up from the graves and surrounding him.

A shadowy form emerged from the darkness and disappeared behind a mausoleum.

Elliot squeezed the handle of the Glock, but did not fire. His nemesis was not armed. Otherwise, he could easily have taken the advantage, but he’d chosen to run instead. He could be trying to draw Elliot deeper into the cemetery, away from the street where a passerby might not hear a shot, if fired, or ascertain its approximate point of origin. Elliot gathered his nerves and started toward the mausoleum. When he reached the small building, he put his back to the wall and edged around the structure, making two complete revolutions in this fashion before stopping near the entrance to the burial chamber.

The act seemed both ridiculous and terrifying as Elliot grasped the cold metal handle and checked the entrance to the mausoleum.

The door rattled, but it was secured.

A small prayer of thanks crossed Elliot’s lips, though his relief was short lived.

From somewhere in the distance, footsteps padded against the soft ground.

Elliot stumbled toward one of the blacktopped roads that meandered through the cemetery and when he reached the hard surface he ran toward the fence where he’d first seen the suspect climb over. He braced himself against the fence and stared through it, looking across Peoria Avenue.

The Honda was still there.

Staying close to the fence, Elliot visually searched the cemetery grounds.

He did not see anyone, but he now recognized this part of the cemetery.

He walked a few paces north, and even before he reached the grave marker he knew what he would find there. The name on the headstone read Sergeant David Conley.

Conley had never been Elliot’s partner, though they had once worked together. Conley’s
role had been closer to a wise old uncle who always seemed to be there when needed. The chain of events leading to Sergeant Conley’s death blossomed in Elliot’s mind. Conley had taken a bullet intended for Elliot.

Elliot touched the cold stone of the marker. “Hey, old buddy,” he said, “sure could use some good old Conley advice right now. I’ve been meaning to come and see you. Never got the chance to tell you how sorry I am, things turning out the way they did.”

Elliot had no more than uttered the words when he again heard footsteps.

About ten degrees to his left, someone dressed in dark clothing emerged from the darkness and advanced toward him.

Elliot swung around, aiming the Glock.

Even in the dim light from the streetlamps along Peoria Avenue, he recognized the young man. He wore gothic clothing, and his black hair hung to his shoulders. Shane Conley, David’s son.

Elliot lowered the weapon. “I don’t know who I expected to find out here, but it sure wasn’t you. Kind of late to be strolling around the city of the dead, wouldn’t you say?”

“Look who’s talking.”

“I’m a police officer. I’m supposed to do stuff like this. What’s your excuse?”

Shane Conley reached beneath his coat.

Elliot tensed, but the kid only pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

Shane lit up and blew out smoke as he tucked the pack inside his coat. “I work here, Detective Elliot, a sort of night watchman. By the way, I heard what you said. Dad would’ve appreciated it. He always liked you, said you were special.”

Elliot felt guilty for thinking it, but a security guard at a place like this seemed a befitting occupation for the kid, the way he dressed and all. But Shane was only fifteen, too young to snag such a job. “He was a good man, your father.”

Shane remained quiet, continuing to draw on the cigarette. He cleared his throat and said, “Yeah. I really miss him. More than I thought I would.”

“I do have a reason for being here,” Elliot said. “I was in the middle of a pursuit. The guy bailed out and ran through the cemetery. You didn’t happen to see anyone, did you?”

Shane contemplated his answer. “No. But this place will do that to you, give you a case of the jitters, make you see things. It takes some getting used to.”

“I can imagine. But I was chasing the guy, saw him climb the fence. I suspect he came here to hide. Lots of places to do that in a cemetery at night.”

“You might be surprised. I can help you look for him, if you want.”

Elliot shook his head. “He’s probably gone by now. Do you see the Honda parked across the street?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Is it yours?”

He shook his head. At the mention of the car, he’d tensed up.

“Do you know who it belongs to?”

Shane’s eyes darted back and forth. “Can’t say I do.”

Shane wasn’t being completely honest, but Elliot couldn’t fathom what the kid’s involvement with Gerald might be, if indeed there was any. And somehow, standing over the grave of Sergeant Conley, it didn’t feel right, interrogating his son. “Thanks for your help,” he said.

By the time Elliot had gotten over the fence and drove back onto Peoria Avenue, the Honda was gone. Had Conley’s son driven it? And did he actually work at Oaklawn? It would be easy enough to check.

Elliot didn’t relish the thought of going to bed without knowing what had happened to his old friend, but fatigue made him sluggish and he couldn’t trust his reasoning. He found the highway and drove toward home in Broken Arrow.

Elliot stared at the road ahead of him, feeling as heavy and as slow of wit as a stone statue. He needed rest, but he also needed some answers. He couldn’t get the old house out of his mind. Even though he’d found no tangible evidence to support his suspicions, he suspected something was going on there, and whatever it was it had something to do with Stanley Gerald Reynolds III. Elliot still wasn’t sure about what he’d seen there, or if it was all in his head. Someone had to own the old building. He would find out, and go from there.

Chapter Eight

Later, in his home, Elliot collapsed onto the bed. He was used to late hours and losing sleep over unusual cases, but what had transpired in the last few hours was so far beyond ordinary that even now he found it difficult to wrap his mind around it.

Just before he drifted off to sleep, he noticed the message light on the phone blinking.

He reached over and punched the play button.

“Call me when you get home, Kenny. Don’t worry about the time.”

It was Carmen.

Elliot checked his watch. It showed 2:30 a.m.

Carmen had said to call, but a cop’s definition of late doesn’t necessarily agree with anyone else’s. On the other hand, had he detected an underlying current of concern in Carmen’s voice?

He grabbed the phone and punched in the number. Even with that, however, he began to feel intrusive, and when the second ring had finished he thought of disconnecting, though he let it ring one more time.

“Kenny?”

She had answered, and her voice was not harsh or annoyed, but soft.

“Yeah,” Elliot said. “Sorry about the time. Is everything all right?”

“Don’t be sorry. You spend too much time worrying about what others think.”

“Not everyone. Just a chosen few.”

She exhaled heavily, a sort of laugh. “You’re probably wondering why I called.”

Maybe Carmen had just come out of a restful sleep and had yet to put up her defenses, but she seemed relaxed and friendly. “The thought crossed my mind.”

“I want to ask you something.”

Hope for the future of their relationship formed in Elliot’s thoughts, and he reminded himself it probably meant nothing. “Sure.”

“Wayne and I talked about it, and we want to go to a movie tomorrow, and we’d like for you to come along.”

Elliot glanced at the glass of water on the nightstand. He wondered if he’d come home and found the message light blinking, or if he’d dropped onto the sofa instead, where he now slept, dreaming. “Sure,” he said. “I’d love to.”

Sensing she was about to hang up, Elliot attempted to keep the connection going a little longer. “Carmen?”

Elliot wondered if he should save it for another time, or drop it altogether, but he could not hold back. He needed Carmen’s stability, her logic. “Do you remember when I told you about seeing Mom, after she passed away?”

“I remember. You were worried I might think you were crazy.”

“A concern that’s still very much alive. And it’s happened again.”

“Your mother?”

Disjointed scenes from earlier in the night played through Elliot’s mind. “No. But it was just as real, and even more unsettling.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

Elliot wondered, and not for the first time, if he should leave this thing alone, but, even as the doubts crossed his mind, the words came out. “I saw a couple of old friends from college.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Let’s not forget about Mom.”

“You mean…?”

“I don’t know what to believe. Things are happening that I don’t understand.”

“You work long hours in a tough job, and even when you’re not, you’re thinking about it. Maybe your mind is looking for a way to release the pressure.”

“I’m not crazy, Carmen. At least I don’t think so.”

“I didn’t say you were. It’s not the same thing. Have you considered seeing a doctor?”

Thoughts of an old girlfriend, Molly Preston, danced through Elliot’s head. He and Molly had had a similar conversation, and Elliot had let his guard down. Molly had been a friend, not a doctor, but she’d betrayed his trust just the same. “I tried that once. It didn’t work out so well.”

“Maybe you should stop fighting it and just let it happen. My Aunt Maria spoke of such things. She said it was a gift.”

Elliot’s stomach tightened. Carmen had never indicated she actually believed him, when it came to such matters. “And what do you think?”